


Echo

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Fluff, Greg goes commando, Greg is Sweet, Greg is a demon, Homesickness, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kidnapping, M/M, Mild Angst, Mycroft is in University, Mycroft is shy, Young!Mystrade, demon!Lestrade, mystrade, wistfulness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-15 14:36:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mycroft is seeking solace from his fighting parents, he encounters an odd man in a clearing. An odd man who manages to circumvent all of his security to end up in Mycroft's bathroom. For all that Mycroft is thrown for a loop, Greg may prove to be just what he needs to deal with the shattered bits of his life. Even if he is a demon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how I came up with this. I was bored doing 750 one morning and it kind of spiraled into this. Part 2 will probably be up in a week or two. There's at least one more part, possibly two, depending on what they get up to.
> 
> As usual, you can find me at my tumblr [here!](http://iolre.tumblr.com)

The shouting and the crash of good china faded and stopped as Mycroft firmly shut the door behind him, escape forefront on his mind. He had changed into far less noticeable clothes - jeans and a button-down, rather than his three-piece suit - but it was always good to make sure there were no servants that might recognize him. It had been a mistake, coming home for the holidays. Sherlock had begged him, had begged Mycroft to not leave him alone in that house. Yet there was nothing he could do, nothing he could do to stop the shouting and screaming and crying.

It wasn't a wonder that Sherlock had turned a cold shoulder in his direction after yesterday. Mycroft just hoped the damage done to their relationship was not irreparable. A family function had dissolved into mass chaos and Mycroft had left at the first opportunity. It was only once he was safe that he realized he had left fourteen-year-old Sherlock behind. Sherlock had locked himself in his room and refused to allow anyone admittance. Mycroft had attempted to break in, but Sherlock had (quite impressively) shoved several, large pieces of furniture up against the door. All he could do was hope that Sherlock emerged from his cocoon before Mycroft had to go back to his final year of University.

The Holmes Estate was surrounded by large swathes of natural forest. As a child and even as a teenager, Mycroft had spent hours exploring when he had the opportunity. Some of his fondest memories of his younger brother were of the two of them traipsing about after one thing or another. Mycroft had quickly learned that Sherlock had an appreciation for the scientific method bordering on obsessive, and had bought him books and supplies to cultivate that interest. It had worked alarmingly well, to the point that Sherlock had nearly convinced Mummy to let him have his own laboratory in the house. Mycroft would have been surprised if Sherlock didn't have one in the next six months.

Not that it mattered, of course. Mycroft wasn't coming back again. He had already secured the job he wanted out of University, even though he had not officially graduated. His primary regret was Sherlock. It had been his intention to offer a space to stay, a place to live for his younger brother. It would be nothing extravagant - his minor position in the British government did not allow for a wide range of frivolities - but it would be something safe from his parents. However, after the prior day's events and Sherlock's more costly pursuits, Mycroft doubted he could offer Sherlock what he wanted or what he needed.

He walked quickly, appreciating the cold wind against his face. It was a change, being back at his home. Mycroft had been chubby growing up, and it was only due to a rigorous work and exercise schedule (and a well-maintained diet) that he had lost most of his childhood weight. Since most of the work had been done at University, the majority of the servants still treated him as if he was a child and attempted to stuff him silly. On top of his parents' incessant fighting, it was a disastrous combination.

The forest helped. He caressed limbs of trees and stems of plants, comforted by the light feeling of the greens touching his pale skin. Even the air was lighter, buoying him along in his journey. There was a small clearing in the middle of the forest, hidden from sight though it was. Mycroft had discovered it four years ago, right before he left to pursue his A-levels. Often when he would come home, he would bring his Work and hide out in the clearing when the weather permitted (which was not as often as Mycroft would have liked). Mycroft's brain was still running, cataloging everything from the types of trees to the different bird calls he heard echoing through the trees. He ignored it, ignored the differences and instead allowed himself to focus on the tranquility.

It wasn't long before he made it to the log that denoted the entrance to the small clearing. He slid under it easily, knowing the servants would never find him. If they even came looking, which he doubted. Mycroft looked up and froze. There was another person in the secret clearing. It wasn't someone he recognized, which meant it wasn't a servant or anyone attached to the Holmes household. That left a stranger, someone who was trespassing, then. "It is illegal for you to be here," he said, his voice frosty.

The brown-haired man (about his own age) looked up and watched him, curious. Mycroft took a few seconds to take in the rest of the other man's appearance. He was dressed in tight-fitting black leather trousers, although he was barefoot, and his tight black shirt fit snugly over his (Mycroft went dry-mouthed at this particular observation) well-muscled chest. He had short, chestnut brown hair, although there were the barest hints of silver at the very edges. His hair was likely to go silver early, and he would look magnificent. If Mycroft fancied men (which he didn't - he didn't, not at all, nope), this man would most certainly be his type. "I doubt that," the other man said with an amused snort.

"Just..." Mycroft let out an irritated huff. "Just leave me alone."

"There is enough room for two of us and civility, yeah?" He plopped down onto the grass, leaning against an oak tree that grew on the side farthest from where Mycroft was standing. "See? I'm not touching you, you're not touching me."

Yet, Mycroft's mind helpfully supplied. He squashed that thought immediately. No touching. No matter how much his fingers itched to touch the tanned skin that decorated the other man, no matter how - how nice he looked, under that so-snug shirt...he would look even better with it off...Mycroft gulped loudly and fought to look away, tempted by muscles and yummy, yummy chests.

Certain that he was flushed a nice crimson colour (the man was looking at him a bit oddly, and Mycroft damned his ginger hair and complexion to the darkest pits of hell), Mycroft settled on the grass as far away from sex-in-nice-shirts as he could. "I suppose that is an acceptable alternative." There was a flash of recognition in the other man's eyes and Mycroft frowned slightly. "Who are you?"

"Greg." The brown-haired man cocked his head to the side, his gaze assessing. "You're a Holmes, aren't you?"

"How do you know that?" Despite himself, Mycroft was more on edge. He had not made many enemies of his own yet, but the enemies his Uncle had made were numerous. It would not be long before Mycroft acquired his own - it was a noteworthy achievement, as he did hope to take his Uncle's position.

"You sound like one. Same posh accent." Greg's smirk made Mycroft want to kiss him and he stifled a groan. The man exuded sex appeal that even Mycroft wasn't immune to. That was Not Okay. "Are you okay?"

"No," Mycroft murmured before he could stop himself. He blinked slowly, startled. He had had no intentions of telling this - whoever he was - what was actually going on. He was okay. He was always okay. Things were always wonderful and fantastic, and that was the face you had to put on for the world (at least according to his diplomatic teachers). Yet - here, there was no one else. Just the strange man who seemed to know far too much. It didn't help that he was drop-dead sexy. If Mycroft was going to react this way every time he met someone who took his breath away, he was in trouble. "My name is Mycroft."

"Ah, so you're Edmund's son, then." Mycroft lifted an eyebrow at the mention of his father's name before he shrugged.

"I prefer to not be associated with my parents," he muttered stiffly.

"Yeah, I wouldn't want to be associated with those gits either," Greg said affably. Mycroft stared at him. It was not often that Mycroft Holmes was thrown for a loop, but here he was, performing a loop de loop that seemed to have no end. He did so hope it was not going to be a regular occurrence. "Look, you can find me if you want me. Even if you just want to chat, or." He paused and deliberately looked Mycroft up and down, lingering on parts that made Mycroft tingle. "For other reasons. You just need to say my name."

"Why would I want to see you again?" Mycroft scowled petulantly. He was doing his best imitation of Sherlock, because in reality, he very much wanted to see the mysterious man again.

"Because I'm a stellar conversationalist and I have fantastic trousers." Greg's white teeth were stark against the tanned skin and Mycroft couldn't help but grin in return. "Besides, I know - quite a bit about your family." Greg sighed, scrubbing his hand through his hair. "Don't ask me how." Slowly he scooted closer to Mycroft until he was sitting with less than six inches between them. "Spill."

And Mycroft did. He told Greg everything, from the fighting to the yelling to Sherlock being left behind. How hard it was to juggle a triple or quadruple major and how he had developed insomnia despite his best efforts to the contrary. So many things that he had never told anyone, he spilled to this man he had known for barely ten minutes. Greg had sat and listened patiently, asking questions when he wanted clarification and simply nodding reassurance when it seemed Mycroft needed it.

"Got a lot on your plate," Greg said thoughtfully. Mycroft tilted his head slightly to the side, hyper aware of how close they were sitting. "Well, I suppose I can help you a bit."

Mycroft bristled. "I don't need your help," he snapped. Greg cocked an eyebrow, challenging, and Mycroft scowled, relenting. "How can you help me?"

"For one, I can help with the sleep part." Greg's wink likely violated laws. Several laws. "For two...well, let's just say I have a way to get around that's rather reliable. And I'm bored."

"How old are you?" Mycroft asked suddenly.

"How old are you?" Greg parroted.

"Twenty," Mycroft answered easily. "Why aren't you saying anything about yourself?"

"Maybe I don't want to." Shifting so that he sat cross-legged, Greg moved closer so that his thigh was pressed against Mycroft's. It was warm - warmer than Mycroft had expected, and he frowned.

"Are you running a fever?"

"Nah," Greg said dismissively. "I just run a bit warmer than the average human, that's all." Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the odd word usage.

"The majority would say you run a bit warmer than the average person, not the average human."

"Bugger." Greg sighed. "Tiny slip-ups like that give things away, I guess."

"You wouldn't happen to be a serial killer, would you?" Mycroft inquired. "My brother would like to meet you if that is the case."

"Your brother wants to meet a serial killer?" Greg seemed amused by the idea. "Why?"

"Sherlock is forever fascinated by puzzles, and murders are simply one of many things that he is drawn to." Mycroft shrugged. No one ever knew why Sherlock did what he did. Most of the time Mycroft suspected that not even Sherlock knew what he was doing. He glanced up at the sky, noting the position of the sun. "It's getting late."

"Yes it is." Greg's grin was slightly bigger and Mycroft shifted, slightly uncomfortable.

"Will you be missed if you stay much longer?" Mycroft looked at him, curious. Greg didn't seem bothered by the question (used to it - or doesn't care). He even seemed amused (grinning wider, muscles shifting under [tight] clothes - excited).

"Nah, nobody's looking for me," he assured Mycroft. "I bet everyone's looking for you, though." Greg stretched, a smirk on his face as Mycroft observed how his movements shifted the muscles of Greg's chest. Purely kinesiology, of course. Data. For future observations. Maybe shirtless next time.

Realizing what Greg had said, Mycroft grimaced. "Perhaps. I should return. I sincerely doubt, however, that many people are actively looking for me or are concerned about my whereabouts." He thought for a few moments. "I should also confirm that the house is, reluctantly, still standing. Despite what was probably Sherlock's best effort."

Greg snorted. "You seem to care about him quite a bit."

Mycroft nodded, standing as he did so. He cleaned off what he could of the evidence that indicated he had been in the clearing. It would be enough to fool the staff, certainly, but not Sherlock. He stifled a groan at the thought. There wasn't much that could be done to escape Sherlock's wrath even without the abnormal circumstances. "He is my brother."

"That's not the only reason?" Tilting his head, Greg watched Mycroft as he stepped towards the exit. "I'll be seeing you, Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft left the clearing contemplating the best way to tell the staff to watch out for an attractive man in extremely tight clothing. Then he spent more time wondering what he would request that they do with him. Throwing him out probably wasn't the right option, but telling them to tie him to Mycroft's bed was also out of the picture. It probably wouldn't end well if Sherlock got his hands on him, either. The house came into view and Mycroft sighed, shoving Greg to the back of his mind and leaving him there. There was no clue as to what was still going on in the house and he needed to be alert.

The house was ghostly silent when he walked in. Immediately Mycroft headed to Sherlock's bedroom, hoping that the teenager was there. The door opened easily and Mycroft froze in the doorway. That was never a good sign. Cautiously he backed out of the door frame before he tilted his head upwards. Juvenile. Sherlock had hung a bucket of pudding and triggered it to the door. Prepared for Mycroft to come, then. “Sherlock?”

A trip wire, Mycroft thought as he attempted to slither through the half-open door. Sherlock had set up the trap so that it looked like it was attached to the door but when one attempted to sneak through the gap, they set off a small wire that was attached to more. A bloody trip wire. He hadn’t even thought to look for one, distracted as he was by his meeting earlier. Because of his ineptitude, he was now covered in pudding. Sherlock two hundred and three, Mycroft thirty seven. His beloved country was certainly in trouble if a fourteen year old could outwit him with a bucket of pudding. It was chocolate flavoured, too. His favorite.

“I know you would rather eat it, Mycroft, but you do not need to work on your pig imitation.” The sneering voice came from the opposite side of the room - Sherlock’s wardrobe. All of fourteen years old and a spitfire. Mycroft would consider it his personal miracle if Sherlock made it to his majority without being assaulted at least once. Sherlock had started attempting to disprove Mycroft’s theory as soon as he could talk.

“Sherlock, as much as your witticisms never cease to amuse me, we do need to discuss the fact that I am now covered in pudding.”

“Indeed. Please remove yourself and the offensive pudding from my room so I may summon the staff to take care of it. If you do not remove yourself promptly, I shall call them and tell them to take you with it.” Sherlock crawled out of the wardrobe like a gangly crow. His curly hair was flying in several directions and he was wearing a too-long wool coat that gave him the impression of a too-short superhero. He would grow once he was older, and catch up or surpass Mycroft’s six feet of height, but for now Mycroft had at least a head on him.

“We will talk before I leave,” Mycroft warned the teenager. With that he turned around and strode confidently out of Sherlock’s room. It was both a win and a loss. Sherlock had removed the furniture barring his door, yet Mycroft had not thought to check for a trip wire before entering Sherlock’s domicile. It was something he should have learned after the Great Melted Chocolate Incident of last year, but he had been sorely distracted.

He walked back to his room in silence. It was good for his dignity that Sherlock’s room was not far from his. What was bad for his dignity was that he missed yet another trip wire walking into his own room and was doused in some kind of foul-smelling powder. Mycroft used the language he had been taught growing up by the staff and swore until he was nearly blue in the face.

“What is that?” Mycroft nearly groaned at the sound of Greg’s voice. The evening continued getting worse.

“How did you get in here?” Mycroft snapped, turning to look at Greg. The man was propped against Mycroft’s wardrobe, standing in the shadows with his arms crossed over his chest.

“I see pudding and - is that talcum powder?” Greg peered closer and then laughed. “Talcum powder. Clever of him.”

“I do not think clever is the right word,” Mycroft said with a sigh. He was angry at Sherlock, yes - anyone would be after that particular combination of pranks. Repairing his relationship with Sherlock was going to be near-impossible. Not that anyone except for himself would blame him if he didn’t try. Regardless of what went on between them, Mycroft was going to do his duty and do his best to look after his little brother. No matter how much it made Sherlock hate him. For now, he had to focus on the stunningly attractive man who had managed to get past one of the best security systems in the world to show up in Mycroft’s bedroom while Mycroft was covered in a ghastly combination of pudding and what did indeed seem to be talcum powder. “I need a shower.”

“I can help with that.”

“No you can’t.”

“Oh, yes I can.” Greg smiled charmingly at Mycroft’s scowl. “At the very least I can get your clothing to the laundry before the maids can find it.” He paused, examining the carpet. “Maybe even get some of the talcum powder out of here. Help you save some face.”

“How..?” Mycroft trailed off, uncertain and amazed. Neither were emotions he was exactly comfortable with in his position in life, but he also didn’t think he was in the position to refuse Greg’s offer. “Yes with the clothing and the carpet, and you stay out of the bathroom.”

“For now.”

“Fine.” Mycroft half-scowled as he grabbed a cotton pair of pyjamas and stomped into the large bathroom attached to his bedroom.

 

Carefully he removed his clothing and set it to the side. It was probably beyond assistance; not that it mattered, he had plenty more. He turned on the shower and stepped under the spray, welcoming the heat onto his skin. Of course Sherlock had used cold pudding. Feeling the goosebumps under his sensitive fingertips, Mycroft waited for the water to work its magic. "I think your clothes are beyond repair." Mycroft jumped, nearly slipping and landing on his arse. "You're a jumpy boy, Mycroft."

"Gregory!" Thankful that the shower door was (hopefully) opaque enough to maintain his modesty, Mycroft scowled at the lanky shape visible through the glass. "What are you doing in here?"

"Mm, everything else was easy," he answered dismissively. "Not my fault your brother seems to have some nasty pudding recipe." Mycroft saw the shape shift slightly, settle into a new position. "Besides." He paused. "I'm quite enjoying the view." Mycroft would later swear that the undignified squawk most definitely wasn't him, although he attempted to cover his parts nonetheless. "Oh, don't worry," Greg told him. "I like what I see. No need to be shy."

"Easy for you to say," Mycroft muttered. Reluctantly he uncovered himself, if only to wipe the shampoo out of his eyes. It was probably the quickest shower he had ever taken, despite the fact that he desperately wanted to linger under the spray. He was especially quick over his groin - he really didn't need an erection when there was someone else in the room. Despite that, he made sure that the talcum powder and pudding were thoroughly cleaned from his skin.

"Oh, I'm not shy." Although he couldn't see Greg, Mycroft could guess that he was grinning - and doing so rather wickedly. The man had no scruples. Not that Mycroft seemed to mind, to be honest. He knew nothing except for Gregory's name and that he looked like sex on legs. Or what Mycroft presumed sex on legs would look like, having no particular experience in that area to judge.

"I did note that." He turned off the shower and paused. Here was something he had not anticipated - how to get a towel without exposing some part of him to the other man's eyes. Despite his best efforts he was certain that Greg had gotten an eyeful before he had secured a towel about his waist. "I am not comfortable with getting dressed while you are in the room."

Greg let out an exaggerated sigh. "Ruin all my fun, don't you." He nodded slightly to Mycroft, who turned around to pick up a second towel, smaller, to use on his hair. When he stood up again, Greg was gone. He paused, startled. Narrowing his eyes, he ran through what he had learned about the man and focused intently on what he could deduce from Greg's physical appearance and mannerisms. He was clean-kept, yet not overtly stylish - cared about his appearance but didn't fuss over it. Contradicted itself with the fact he seemed to live on the Holmes land - needed more data there.

The primary conclusion Mycroft came to was that he was off. He moved with a supernatural ease, he seemed to disappear and reappear without thought, and he had absolutely no problem being in a bathroom with a naked Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft wasn't certain which part of that unnerved (or excited) him the most. He scowled down at his nether regions, imploring them to behave, and then set about changing for the night. The cotton pyjamas slid easily over freshly-dried skin, the fabric comforting to someone who spent the majority of his time in impeccable suits. The difference in texture helped him set aside work and rest in what little time he had, although he certainly had became accustomed to sleeping wherever and whenever he was able to.

Walking out of the bathroom, he wasn't surprised to see the black-clad man lounging on his overly large bed. Mycroft stopped just out of the door and his gaze swept the floor. All traces of pudding and talcum powder were gone as if they had never been there. "You are efficient in the tasks you complete."

Greg's grin was predatory and Mycroft had to stop himself from taking a half-step back. His gaze lingered on Mycroft's groin and then trailed up his body before finally meeting his eyes. "And pretty damn good, if I do say so myself."

"You are a bad man," Mycroft admonished him. "I do not even know your full name, where you live, or where you go to school."

"Pesky details." Greg waved a hand nonchalantly.

"Nor do I know exactly how you managed to make it into my home unacknowledged. Or how you got into my bedroom, much less my bathroom." Mycroft cocked an eyebrow and tilted his head. "I require information."

"And what do I get in return?"

"Whatever you want," Mycroft retorted bravely. He hoped.

"Oh, love." Greg shook his head and Mycroft started at the endearment. "You don't want to promise me that." Making eye contact again, he licked his lips deliberately. "You might not like the outcome." Laying back on the bed, Greg stared up at the ceiling. "You would not like the truth if I told you, nor would you believe me." He settled his hands behind his head, relaxing. "So less worrying about the details and let's have a bit of fun, yeah?"

Mycroft stiffened, insulted. Yet the anger was tempered with amazement - that this beautiful, odd man wanted him (even if it was just for a bit of fun - whatever that meant). "I do not 'have a bit of fun'," he snapped. "And I am quite logical. I am certain I would believe what you told me as long as it was the truth."

"Ahh, but see, love, your logic is what gets the best of you." Shifting slightly on the bed, Greg made room for Mycroft. He patted the side of the bed. "C'mere."

"I think not," Mycroft said, his feathers ruffled (metaphorically, of course). "I demand that you tell me what is going on." He scowled. "In the disgusting colloquialism, I demand that you 'spill the beans'."

"Aww, resorting to common language now are we?" Greg chuckled. "Come and sit, and we'll have a chat. If you don't want me to disappear by then, we can do something more - fun."

Mycroft walked over to the bed as if it was going to jump up and attack him at any second. Considering Greg was still perched on it, it was not an unreasonable assumption after the bathroom incident. "I am not a slave to my baser instinct," he informed Greg sharply.

"Never said that you were." Greg did some odd motion on his chest. "Cross my heart and hope to die." He snorted as Mycroft settled on the edge of the bed. "You're going to fall off like that."

"No I'm not."

"Really, I'm not going to jump you, or bite you. Unless you want me to. Which I know you do - don't try and deny it - but we can discuss that later." Mycroft eyed Greg skeptically, watching the man take a deep breath. "If there is a later, anyway."

"I require proper wining and dining," Mycroft informed him. Or he thought so, anyway. Despite being twenty one years of age, he had spent the majority of those twenty one years perfecting the ability to have plenty of social interaction yet not come out with a single date. Being a single gay male in the increasingly complex world of politics was quite lonely. Not that it mattered, really, because who would put up with Mycroft and his schedule? Having an incredibly minor position in a minor branch of the British Government brought along a whole host of difficulties.

"I'm not human." Greg's voice crashed through Mycroft's thoughts.

"That's not possible."

"I'm afraid that it is," said Greg, his tone amused. "I'm a demon. From hell, yes."

"No you are not. Is this some kind of joke? Am I being - filmed for some horrible American television show?"

"Of course not. Although if anyone was to have a show where someone pranked a posh bloke and hid in their home and loo, it'd be the Americans."

"Rightfully so." Mycroft blinked, distracted. "Why are you not telling me the truth?"

"I am telling you the truth," Greg repeated, his tone patient. "I was kicked out of hell and banished to Earth."

"Why?" Mycroft asked dumbly.

"Apparently one can be too nice to survive in hell." Mycroft could see the change in Gregory's posture, the tenseness that indicated some old hurt lied underneath those words. He was not pleased that his first instinct was to soothe this obviously deranged man. "Look at the evidence, Mr. Logical. I appeared in your home without being detected. I appeared in your bathroom, for hell's sake."

"And disappeared."

"And disappeared," he agreed. "I can travel between shadows. Not very often, really only in the evenings and overnight, but it's a useful skill to have." His chocolate eyes flickered to Mycroft and then back away.

"Is that why you wear black?" Mycroft blinked, not having intended to ask a question. Much less one that indicated that he might believe Gregory's horrendously false tale. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the sight of the quirk at the edge of Greg's lips. The man was amused, although startled by his amusement. Possibly the first time he had heard that inquiry? "And how do you know my father?"

"I was banished a long time ago," Greg answered slowly. "I knew your father when he was younger. This estate is built right over a gate to hell." He flashed a smile at Mycroft's snort of amusement. "Yeah, I know. Anyways, I've been watching you for a long time. Er, your family, that is," he added hastily. "You caught me off guard when you came into the clearing. I didn't expect you to be there."

"Does my father know you?"

"No, although he might have a vague impression of my face. Demons age a lot slower than humans." Mycroft had slid closer on the bed and Greg's eyes kept flickering between the auburn-haired man and the ceiling as if he was afraid that looking at Mycroft would cause him to disappear.

"So you are a demon." Mycroft attempted to wrap his mind around the theory. "Not a homeless lunatic who has taken his stalking to a new level?"

"Yes to one of those, but I won't tell you which," Greg responded, cheeky. Mycroft swatted at his arm, playful. "Be careful, your humanity is showing," he teased. Mycroft scowled at him. "So you believe me, then?"

"Possibly," Mycroft answered tentatively, testing the words. "The data seems to indicate that it could be a possibility, as unlikely as it seems."

"Finally," Greg said with a sigh. He turned back to Mycroft. "Now can we get on with the good stuff?"

"Wining and dining, Gregory."

"You're pushy," Greg told him. "Proper dinners, proper dates."

"Dating? Is that what you're proposing? I thought you were just out for a bit of fun."

"Ahh, Mycroft," Greg tsk-tsked. "Nothing is a 'bit of fun' with a demon. We're quite..." he trailed off deliberately, maintaining eye contact. "Possessive of things we have become attached to." Mycroft gulped under the intensity of the brown eyes - they rivaled Sherlock's at times when he was making deductions.

"And you've - become attached to me?" he asked tentatively. Greg's smirk answered his question and Mycroft sat quietly, uncertain as to what was happening. Some things fell into place (the shadows, the bathroom, things like that), yet others provoked even more questions. There were no such thing as supernatural beings - were there? Apparently there was, and the sexy creature laying in his bed propositioning him was one of them. And he seemed very, very interested in Mycroft, both for his body and his mind.

Mycroft would be mad to turn him down. Yet he had to do it on his terms. If Greg would agree. Greg nodded slightly. "Your terms," he told Mycroft. "Human relationships are quite different anyway." There was a certain set to his mouth, some tension in his frame that made Mycroft frown. More painful memories, then. Mycroft opened his mouth and Greg shook his head. “Time for bed for you.”

“I told you earlier. I can’t sleep.” Pausing, Mycroft scowled at the bed. “Besides, you are on the bed.”

“Your point being?” Greg scooted to the edge and gestured to the wide expanse Mycroft could chose from. “Plenty of space for you.”

“Please remove yourself from my bed.”

“Nah.”

“I will call security.”

“No you won’t.”

“Yes I will.”

“Look, I told you I can help you.” Greg looked at Mycroft, his eyes quiet and intense. "In more than one way. Come lay down." Mycroft eyed him skeptically and Greg's expression hardened. "You're being stupid."

"I'm a Holmes," Mycroft snapped. "We're not stupid."

Greg sighed and rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. "You can't actually believe that crap."

"I have an eidetic memory and -"

"Yeah, yeah." Greg dismissed Mycroft's words with a wave of his hands. "There are different types of stupid, you know." He closed his eyes and opened them, sitting up and settling cross-legged. "You're scared." His eyes swept up Mycroft's body, leaving him feeling more exposed than he had when he was naked. "You've never kissed anyone before, much less what I was proposing." Greg rubbed a hand to his forehead, sighing. Mycroft had gone pale and taken a step back.

That - that - ugh! Mycroft didn't know what to say so he merely stood against the wardrobe. Maybe if he opened it, and got in, it would spirit him away to another world. If Greg was actually a demon, surely it couldn't be that far fetched. "Doesn't work," Greg said helpfully. Mycroft jolted. This wasn't the way it was supposed to work! He was supposed to be reading Greg's mind, not the other way around.

"Can you read minds?" Mycroft asked suspiciously.

"Nope," Greg answered with a laugh. "Although that'd certainly be useful. So why are you taking so many subjects at Uni?" Mycroft stared again, thrown for a loop by the change of subject.

"I want to know everything," he answered finally. "Politics, economics, philosophy - how people act, why they do it, how the governments work, interact. It's a giant system, like clockwork, and it's fascinating." Cursing his freckles and pale skin, Mycroft realized he had gone bright red. "I do tend to be a bit verbose, my apologies."

"No, I like to hear it." Greg smiled broadly, encouraging. Tentatively Mycroft edged forward until he was sitting on the bed, as far away from Greg as he could manage.

"Well, we're learning about the political systems of the African countries in my politics class," he started, slow and cautious as he waited for Greg's expression to change, to become vacant. But it didn't. Warmed by his obvious interest, Mycroft launched into a more convoluted explanation, detailing nearly everything he had learned in the class so far and all that he found interesting. Greg watched his face intently, nodding and asking intelligent questions when Mycroft paused for breath. By the time Mycroft realized he had been talking for nearly three hours, his voice was hoarse and he was starting to yawn. He turned bright red. "I'm sorry, I do have a tendency to ramble."

"It's all good, love." Greg laughed. Mycroft had inched closer as he had talked, gesturing enthusiastically to match the tone of his voice. "It's damn sexy to watch you talk about politics. It's clear you love it, and you work hard for what you want. No surprise there."

Mycroft stared at him. "You keep calling me that endearment." He narrowed his eyes. "Are you mocking me?" Greg looked startled and then frowned.

"I wouldn't mock you. Why, have some people - ah," he said softly, exhaling. "It's a sore spot for you. Due to your lack of relationships."

Mycroft looked mortified. "I am supposed to be the one deducing you!" He laid back on the bed, glaring viciously at the ceiling. It was not going the way he wanted it to. Then again, he had no idea what direction he had desired it to go in the first place and then he realized he was going in circles and that it didn't really matter. Years later, Mycroft would learn to appreciate the traits that he and Sherlock had in common. Mycroft had just learned to control them.

"I'm hard to read, even by demon standards." Greg's voice was soft, wistful. Mycroft turned to look at him and he was staring up at the ceiling, his face regretful. "I'm half human. My mother was a demon, my father a human she met and fancied. I'm a half breed, hated on both sides."

Mycroft paused, not certain what to do with this information. “What does that mean?” he asked cautiously. He shifted closer to Greg, until he felt the demon’s bony elbow against the side of his head.

“It means I have no place to call mine. I belong in neither world, but drift between the two.” He sounded bitter now, and Mycroft flinched at the hurt. Greg lifted his head up and smiled at Mycroft. “None of that matters, though,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m here with you, aren’t I.” Mycroft blinked, not certain whether to be dazzled or confused. “Time for you to sleep now, love.” Greg’s smile was warm, his voice rough, and Mycroft yawned again.

“Don’t want to,” he muttered rebelliously. He was ignoring the part of his brain that was telling him he sounded like Sherlock. That was preposterous.

“Are you alright with me sleeping on your bed?” Greg inquired. It was the first time he had asked instead of assumed, and it threw Mycroft for a loop.

Mycroft considered the question, his first response hesitant. Yet Greg had been nothing more than kind to him, lewd jokes aside, and he had listened and supported Mycroft more than anyone else Mycroft had known, and he had only known Mycroft for a day. A thought lingered in the back of Mycroft’s mind that he was falling for Greg, and falling hard. Or had already fallen. Semantics, really. “I have never done that before,” Mycroft admitted, mildly embarrassed.

“Lay on your side,” Greg murmured, his voice suddenly soothing and hypnotic and far too close to Mycroft’s ear for his liking. Yet Greg hadn’t moved. Frowning, Mycroft did as he was told, getting settled.

He pushed himself up to look at Greg. “Don’t you have pyjamas or something? Won’t that -” Here Mycroft gestured to Greg’s leather trousers - “Be uncomfortable? You can borrow some of mine, if you would like. They should fit you satisfactorily.”

“One of the silly human customs, I take it.” Greg got up from the bed with a dramatic sigh, going to grab the first pair of pyjamas he saw - cotton, slate-gray - and sitting them on the dresser. He had his back to Mycroft as he slipped his hands down to his waist and pulled his shirt off, exposing the expanse of nicely tanned skin. His muscles flexed as he moved and Mycroft had to bite back a whine of disappointment when Greg slid the pyjama shirt on. Mycroft had to choke back a whimper as Greg stripped off said leather trousers, revealing a perfectly formed arse. Oh god. He went - naked under his trousers.

“There are pants in that dresser. New ones,” Mycroft croaked, his throat suddenly unbearably dry as all of his blood supply went flowing down to his nether regions. He had read about this in the chauffeur's hidden stash of romance novels, but never expected to actually experience it.

Greg let out a long-suffering sigh. “If I must.” He walked over to the dresser, naked from the waist-down, giving Mycroft a very good look at - well - everything. Mycroft forced himself to swallow and attempted to compose himself so that he wasn’t staring lewdly at Greg’s backside.

From the grin Greg gave him when he looked over his shoulder, Mycroft wasn’t doing a very good job. Greg grabbed a pair of new pants and slid them up, wiggling his hips deliberately as he settled the black pants on his hips. Mycroft couldn’t stifle his whimper and Greg chuckled low in his throat. Groaning, Mycroft grabbed a pillow and covered his face with it. He realized he was blocking the view and lifted it just enough so he could see the tantalising black pants disappear as they were covered by slate-grey cotton.

It was then that Mycroft realized he was cherry-red out of embarrassment and arousal. He stuffed the pillow back over his face, scowling petulantly when he felt it yanked from his grasp. Greg’s expression was warm, amusement clear in his smile. “You’re free to look, you know.” He paused, a slight crease on his brow as his gaze swept Mycroft’s face. He crawled onto the bed next to Mycroft. “Who told you it wasn’t okay?”

Mycroft looked away from the searching look, humiliation hot and heavy in his chest. It was dampening the arousal, and for that, he was thankful. He wasn’t ready for that. “No one. I just am - not familiar with the social etiquette in this kind of situation.”

Greg slipped a finger under Mycroft’s chin and turned his gaze to meet Greg’s. “If I’m offering, you’re free to look, alright?” Mycroft hesitated, and Greg must have seen it in his face because his brown eyes clouded over. Greg leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. “We’ll deal with that more tomorrow, love. Roll onto your side. No, don’t worry about your duvet, I can keep you warm.”

Mycroft looked at him, studying his face for a minute before nodding and rolling over. Gone was the playfulness, the lewd teasing, the quirky smiles. In its place was a quiet solemnity, warm and comforting, and it reassured Mycroft like nothing else. “What are you going to do?” Hating the hesitancy in his tone and the tension coursing through his frame, Mycroft tried to force himself to relax.

“I’m just going to lay with you,” Greg said softly, his voice back to the honey-warmth of earlier, coursing through Mycroft’s veins and Mycroft felt like he was melting into the bed. “My lips might touch your hair, or the back of your neck. I can’t do much, but one thing as a demon I can do is put someone to sleep - no, love. Not forever. Just enough for your body to get the rest it needs. You won’t have nightmares - yes, I know about those. Shhh.” A warm, comforting hand slid its way up Mycroft’s tense body.

How did he know that much? No one knew about the nightmares. No one. Not even Sherlock. “A demon can tell,” Greg murmured. A warm body slid in behind Mycroft’s and he jolted, quieting once Greg’s warm hand slid over his middle and pulled him back against the inferno behind him. “I’ll be here in the morning.” Greg’s nose nuzzled the back of his neck, and Mycroft shivered at the sensation.

Mycroft felt Greg’s lips on the back of his neck next, tracing occasionally up into his hair. It was warmth and comfort and confusing, all mixed together in a package. How was he supposed to sleep when he was dealing with all of that? “Sleep.” Greg hummed against the pale skin of Mycroft’s neck and Mycroft felt his eyelids start to droop. “There you go, love,” Greg encouraged softly. Mycroft slept.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This piece has kind of managed to get away from me. I don't think it will be ridiculously long, but we're looking at at least four more parts. Possibly five. I like this Greg. Sassypants. Unfortunately there is a distinct lack of leather trousers in this part, but I shall remedy that eventually.
> 
> OH! **Important to note - the rating is going up to E due to a scene in this part. Greg is a naughty boy.**
> 
> Camp NaNo is starting up in about an hour and so updates for this piece will take about two to three weeks, depending on how much extra writing time I get! As usual, you can follow me at [my tumblr](http://iolre.tumblr.com) for updates/ramblings/previews/etc. Or there would be previews, if I finished anything ahead of time. Whoops!

The door banged open imperiously and Mycroft jolted awake in the bed, sitting up and focusing his gaze on the entrance to the room. He was acutely aware of Greg lying still half-curled next to him. Mycroft was even more aware of the curly-haired teenager standing in the doorway, staring at the couple in the bed. His eyes narrowed. Greg mumbled something and curled closer to Mycroft, tugging at him insistently. Mycroft stared back at his younger brother, attempting to come up with something to say that wouldn't be horribly incriminating.

He wasn't particularly successful. "Sherlock," he got out through gritted teeth. Mycroft was aware he sounded like a croaking frog. Swallowing, he tried again. "You came out of your room." Sherlock's eyes flickered to Greg and then back to Mycroft and he lifted an elegant eyebrow.

"Obviously," he said disdainfully. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Waking up."

"If that is a euphemism for the state of your penis, I do not wish to hear it."

"I can assure you, dear brother, that I would not direct any commentary about my nether parts in your direction."

"But you will direct it towards the peon in your bed?" Sherlock looked Greg up and down, deliberately. This time Mycroft glared at his younger brother, and he couldn't help how he moved closer to Greg. This only caused Sherlock to smirk and Mycroft cursed his humanity to hell. "I thought so." Sherlock snorted, and it was such a poised comment that Mycroft wanted to take Sherlock's scarf and shove it down his throat, if only to stop the production of any more disdainful commentary. "I shall leave you to your depravity." Sherlock turned and stalked off, not even bothering to close the door behind him.

Mycroft groaned and slipped fully out of Greg's grasp, going to shut and lock the door to his bedroom. Not that it would stop Sherlock. Not that anything ever stopped a particularly determined or a bored Sherlock. He had been the star of his nanny's nightmares for years and even now, Mycroft heard she would wake up screaming, having dreamt he was falling from a tree or something horribly pedestrian. Sherlock had only done that twice, after all. The hospital stays had been disastrous, but Mycroft preferred not to relive the horror of those days.

Walking back to the bed, Mycroft glanced down at the man - demon - man thing - that still shared it. He looked oddly young while asleep. His features had softened, blunted around the edges with none of the sharp angles that were sometimes present when he was awake. Somehow during the night Greg had shed his shirt and his nicely tanned chest was bared to Mycroft’s eyes. Without thinking about it Mycroft placed a hand on the taut stomach, his long fingers exploring the dips between muscles. He pulled his hand back, horrified by his boldness, only to realize that Greg had cracked an eye open and was watching him, soft amusement on his face.

"I said you could touch me, you know," Greg murmured. He stretched. Mycroft watched, fascinated, as the muscles of Greg’s chest and arms shifted with the movement. It was fascinating how they flexed, hypnotic almost. His cheeks coloured when he realized he was blatantly staring at Greg's naked skin. A finger under Mycroft’s chin tilted his head up to meet Greg's eyes. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about, yeah?"

Mycroft's cheeks flushed darker and he bit his lip. "You're partially naked."

"I noticed," Greg remarked dryly.

"You're naked," Mycroft repeated, as if it explained everything. It probably did. Maybe. Mycroft wasn't really sure. He kept a firm mental grip on his hands, refusing to allow them anywhere near Greg's glorious expanse of nicely tanned, delicious-looking skin. Oh no. Well. Greg had said it was okay. That meant it was Okay okay, certainly? Mycroft's hind-brain crowed its triumph as trembling fingers touched Greg's abdomen. A part of him was laughing at his current situation. He could navigate minor political situations that affected far more lives than his own, yet he couldn't compose himself when it was just the two of them and he was touching the half-naked man in his bed.

Slowly, carefully controlling his movements, Mycroft let his hands drift over Greg's chest. They smoothed the dips in the skin between lean abdominal muscles, sliding upwards until they reached his pectoral muscles, drifting until they reached the bony contours of his collarbones. His skin and muscles felt lovely under Mycroft's fingers, and he was seized by a sudden urge to do something far more decadent, something that was likely horrendously inappropriate. Greg was watching him quietly, a half-smile on his face. Cautiously Mycroft leaned down and, aware that his face and ears were completely red at this point, licked a wide swath across Greg's stomach.

It wasn't bad, he thought. Greg’s skin was salty, tangy, with a hint of something spicy underneath that Mycroft figured was probably his natural scent. Mycroft’s fingertips trailed across the skin, curious and probing. It was a matter of gathering data. Greg inhaled sharply underneath him as Mycroft's tongue continued on its way, licking and nipping at the dips in the rectus abdominis muscles, trailing to the obliques on the side before moving upwards. Hesitating briefly, Mycroft slid his mouth over Greg's nipple, nearly flinching as Greg twitched and gasped underneath him. "God. Your mouth," Greg muttered. Mycroft paused, his mouth around the nipple still. He lifted an eyebrow, questioning. Greg snorted. "It’s positively sinful." He winked and the blush was back again.

Screwing up his courage again, Mycroft wandered up to Greg's collarbone, his sensitive fingertips becoming familiar with its shape before he kissed the protuberance, nipping and lapping messily at the skin. "You're wonderful," he murmured, nosing the hollow of Greg's throat before he pressed a kiss against the thrumming pulse in his neck. "Delicious."

"You're not a vampire, are you?" Greg asked suspiciously

"Wouldn't you know if I was one?" Mycroft countered, most of his focus on what his mouth and fingers were doing. It wasn't long after that he concluded he had gathered most of the data that he could (for the moment, anyway - in an hour, there could be more data that could be collected. Who knew if Greg reacted differently at 9am than he did at 8am?).

"We never did get along, us and the vampires," Greg remarked, so casually that Mycroft couldn't tell if he was joking. "Sarcasm," Greg clarified for good measure. Mycroft sat up, rocking back on his heels, and just looked. Greg's hair was mussed, his hands resting behind his head, so relaxed that Mycroft couldn't tell that he had someone licking his chest just moments before. The only tell was the glistening trails of saliva making the contours of his chest gleam. Mycroft's ears went pink. "I hope you're not this easy to read in your job," Greg said cheekily.

"You fluster me," Mycroft admitted.

"It's my stellar personality," Greg pronounced. It was then that Mycroft allowed his gaze to trail lower, down to the obviously interested-in-the-proceedings bulge in Greg's trousers. “I’ve got a pretty fantastic cock, too, if I do say so myself.” Mycroft choked and Greg laughed, lifting himself up so he could pat the auburn-haired man on the back. “Yours looks wonderful,” he added, very not helpfully staring at the bulge in Mycroft’s trousers.

Mycroft wondered if he was dreaming. He kind of hoped he was, hoped his embarrassment would swallow him alive. But he kind of wished he wasn’t, too. The man in his bed was - well, sinfully gorgeous, and he wanted Mycroft, both for his body and his mind. He knew things about Mycroft, things Mycroft hadn’t told anyone. He was open and easygoing and comfort and warmth and Mycroft had never wanted anything (or anyone) so bad in his life. Even if he did make lewd jokes.

“May I kiss you?” Mycroft heard himself ask. He cringed. He had not meant to sound like some archaic posh bastard who had to ask permission for something like that. He meant to sound composed. Smooth. Articulate. With the distracting way his groin was aching, he doubted either smooth or articulate was in his future any time soon.

Greg smiled, and it was so sweet that Mycroft nearly choked from the emotion welling up in his chest. He forced himself to swallow. “Of course,” Greg said simply. Of course he couldn’t make it easy, laying back on the bed so that Mycroft practically had to lay on top of him to reach his mouth.

Mycroft did settle himself over Greg, but it was for science. Research. Data. Or something. Resolving to figure out the proper justification later, Mycroft reached down and timidly pressed his lips to Greg’s. Something warm unfurled in his belly and his fingers spasmed in the sheets around Greg’s head. “Oh, make that noise again.” Greg’s voice jolted Mycroft’s eyes open (he wasn’t even aware he’d closed them - was that normal?) and he looked at Greg. Greg, who was staring at Mycroft hungrily, as if he wanted to devour him alive (was that normal too? Or was that a demon thing? Mycroft made a note to ask later). His mind flicked back to what Greg had said. He had made a noise? He paused, his eyes slightly unfocused, attempting to listen for any sort of noise. All he heard was laboured breathing, both his and Greg’s.

“You’re frowning, love,” Greg chuckled underneath him. “It was a good sort of noise. Sexy, even.” He shifted, causing Mycroft to squirm at the adjustment. “So responsive,” Greg teased. Mycroft whimpered without realizing it. He contemplated stuffing a hand in his mouth (did he really make that much noise?) but he quickly realized that doing so would send him plummeting onto the man who was watching him from inches away.

Deliberately Mycroft sat back up, ignoring the part of him throwing up a fuss at losing contact with the warm man underneath him. It was Improper. “Wining and dining, Gregory,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

Greg shook his head pityingly, drawing a scowl from Mycroft. “You’ll be regretting that sooner rather than later, love.” His grin was sinful, so wicked that it turned Mycroft’s knees into jelly.

“You could bring down armies,” Mycroft said darkly. Greg hummed a cheerful tune and then pressed a quick kiss to Mycroft’s lips, swiping his tongue across before he reached down and gently palmed Mycroft’s erection. Mycroft shuddered under the touch, his breath escaping him in a soft ‘whuff’ before Greg was up and moving.

“Shower for me, love. What about you?” Ignoring his discarded clothes from last night, Greg sauntered into the bathroom, leaving the door cracked open. Mycroft eyed it skeptically. Was it an invitation?

“Feel free to grab more pants,” Mycroft grumbled, hopefully loud enough for Greg to hear. No more commando. Mycroft wasn’t sure if he could take it. Maybe he’d have a heart attack next time. That would show Greg. He held his head in his hands, trying to assimilate everything that had happened. He had a sexy man in his bathroom, determined to seduce him, and he was putting up a protest so weak that it was laughable. And Sherlock had walked in on them. Sherlock! Mycroft groaned and his hand slid down his face, rubbing his temples. What was he going to do about his brother?

There was an odd noise in the bathroom and Mycroft’s attention was drawn to the door. He was hesitant about approaching the door. Scowling at his hesitance and his general behavior, Mycroft forced himself to walk over to the bathroom door and push it open. “What are you doing - oh god.” Greg was standing near the shower, a towel in his hand and another perched nearby. Mycroft froze, his eyes wide. Greg was naked.

Naked. Mycroft’s mind stuttered on that word, repeating it two or three times for good measure. His eyes zeroed in on one particular part. Not that Mycroft had much experience with that particular piece of a man, but it certainly looked like Greg had a fantastic cock. That’s when Mycroft’s brain crashed and burned and he realized he was standing there, in the doorway to his bathroom, oogling a naked man. He was bloody thankful that Sherlock had only walked in on them in bed. Mycroft wasn’t certain he could have lived with him walking in on them now.

Mycroft backed up a few paces and slammed the bathroom door shut. Then he opened it again. Then he shut it. Deciding it was safer closed, he threw himself onto his bed and attempted to will away his very interested erection. His mind was flooded with images of what he had just seen, Greg's tanned body permanently imprinted on his brain. The smarter part of Mycroft agreed Greg looked very, very nice indeed, and politely inquired as to why he had voluntarily shut the door on such a wonderful view instead of standing there and basking in its beauty.

The door to the bathroom opened and Greg poked his head into the bedroom, his eyes alight with amusement. "Are you coming or not?" he asked, a devilish smile on his face. It was then that Mycroft's hormones firmly took the driver's seat and he found himself walking towards the bathroom before he realized he had even got off the bed. The pyjama trousers did little to hide his growing arousal and Mycroft wasn't sure how his face was getting enough blood to be the dark red it was as most of his blood seemed to be rushing south. Greg pulled Mycroft through the door, closing and locking it behind them.

"I'm going to kiss you, yeah?" Greg murmured, tugging Mycroft closer until he was pressed against him. "If it's too much, just say stop and I will." Mycroft nodded his agreement, his mind sidetracked by his awareness of how odd of a picture they made. Greg naked, tanned and glorious, and Mycroft, pale and pyjama-clad. At least he wasn't in a suit, Mycroft mused. His thoughts were derailed when soft, warm lips pressed against his. Not forceful, not insisting, but gentle, and just - there. Mycroft’s lips parted as he inhaled and Greg's tongue licked at his lips, warm and seeking, gentle and not pushy or insistent. Obediently Mycroft opened his mouth further, his tongue cautiously inching out to trace Gregory's lips.

His hands! What did he do with his hands? Greg was naked, was it appropriate to rest them anywhere? Mycroft desperately wished there was a book on etiquette written for kissing so he had the faintest idea of what to do, because it was far different from what the few trashy romance novels he had read claimed. He moaned into the kiss when Greg’s tongue bumped into his, the motion sending electricity down his spine. Mycroft relaxed minutely as Greg's arms around him tightened, holding him closer. His waist, Mycroft decided, and he placed his hands just over Greg's hipbones, thumbs smoothing over the taunt flesh, caressing the bones underneath. He felt Greg shiver under his touch and it sparked fire coiling in his belly, low and warm.

Deciding that he wasn't going to just stand there, Mycroft shifted closer and started kissing Greg back, licking into his mouth purposefully, mimicking what he had done earlier. Greg was hard against his hip, matching the erection that was tenting Mycroft’s trousers. As Greg deepened the kiss, Mycroft let him have control for a few moments before taking it back, having deduced what Greg liked best and turning his desires against him Greg pulled back from the kiss with a moan, panting. "Damn," he swore. "You're a fast learner."

"I'm a Holmes," Mycroft pointed out, his chest heaving alongside Greg's. He was painfully hard within his pyjamas and acutely aware of the fact his freckled skin was a light pink all over.

"Well, you're about to be naked." Greg's fingers went to the bottom of Mycroft's pyjama top and Mycroft held his breath. It took him a few moments to realize that Greg was waiting for permission, despite his teasing tone. Mycroft nodded his agreement. His grin deepening, Greg quickly grasped the hem and lifted it over Mycroft's head, tugging so that Mycroft lifted his arms and allowed it to slide off. "Thought so," he murmured, his intense eyes examining every inch of Mycroft's skin now that it was bared for him to see.

Mycroft was aware that he had nothing on Greg in terms of pure physique. He was slender, with a light dusting of gingery chest hair tapering into a trail that led down to his belt line. His body was muscled but nothing defined, the flesh a bit loose about his middle from where he had lost weight as a teenager. The hungry gaze Greg turned in his direction did quite a bit to soothe Mycroft's worry about his appearance. While Greg had been close when he was kissing Mycroft, now he was just far enough back that Mycroft could examine his body with a more clinical perspective.

He was tan although not overly so. His chest was well-muscled, as were his thighs and calves; he was compact but not heavy, strong but not overwhelming. His pubic hair was a dark, chestnut brown, and his erection was flat against his stomach. Mycroft stared at it, his cheeks darkening, and swallowed. Greg chuckled, low and throaty, before slipping a finger under Mycroft's chin and angling it so he could look at his face. "Pants now, love. You okay with that?" Mycroft nodded and Greg dropped to his knees.

Mycroft swallowed again, certain that he had somehow been dropped into an odd fantasy land where things like this actually happened. He had the most gorgeous man he had ever met, who was smart and brilliant and quirky, on his knees, naked, in front of him. Realizing that he was holding his breath, he let it out in a whoosh. Greg would probably be disappointed if he passed out. Hell, if Mycroft passed out, he was going to die of humiliation and wouldn’t that just be amazing. A man in his position didn't turn down - whatever was being offered - from men like Greg! Or really, from Greg in general. Because damned if Mycroft was going to resist the sexy demon.

Greg hooked his fingers into the waistband of Mycroft's trousers and pulled them slowly down, taking the pants off with them. A corner of his lips quirked up as Mycroft's cock escaped from its confinement, slapping against his belly as Greg continued tugging down the cotton clothing. "Step out of your trousers," Greg commanded softly. Mycroft did so, watching as Greg flicked the clothes off to a corner unknown. Greg stood up. Mycroft wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed and settled for a mixture of both.

Greg held Mycroft’s eyes for a few moments and then extended his hand, a slight smile on his face. Mycroft took the offered hand and tensed as Greg pulled him close. They were flush against each other, bare skin against bare skin, and it was almost too many sensations for Mycroft to catalogue, nearly too much for him to handle. Greg pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before he released him and turned on the shower, letting the water heat up before he led Mycroft underneath the spray. The shower stall was big enough for several people, leaving plenty of room for the two of them as they adjusted to the light, rainfall-like spray of water spattering them with its warm droplets.

"You're quite eager for this, aren't you?" Greg murmured into Mycroft’s ear. His hand trailed down Mycroft’s slick abdomen, gently stroking his erect cock, sending shivers down the auburn-haired man's spine. Mycroft bit back a moan as Greg's hand cupped his testicles, rolling them between deft, eager fingers. "No, don't do that. I want to hear you." Mycroft shuddered as Greg spoke, the demon pitching his voice just low enough that it went straight to Mycroft's already very interested cock. Greg explored the firmness of Mycroft’s cock using his fingertips. The light pressure was enough to have Mycroft holding back whimpers. He nearly bit his lip in half when Greg gave him a firmer stroke.

Mycroft made a soft noise in the back of his throat when Greg pulled his hand away. He thrust his hips forward without explicit permission, seeking more of the friction provided by Greg's fingers. Greg lifted an eyebrow, his back to the spray of water, and waited. "Don't stop," Mycroft pleaded, his cheeks burning.

"Mm, I love it when you talk dirty." Greg leaned forward and pressed another kiss to Mycroft's mouth. "I'm going to do something else now, okay? If you try and stifle your noises, I'll stop. No more biting your lip." Playfully Greg tugged at Mycroft’s lower lip with his teeth, a smile on his face. Receiving a nod from the taller man, Greg shifted Mycroft so that his back was against the wall and he was out of the full force of the spray of the water. It was easier on both of them. Mycroft's eyes widened when Greg dropped to his knees in front of him, his focus on Mycroft's erection. It took all of his willpower to not shove his fist into his mouth as Greg slowly licked the tip of his cock.

Mycroft moaned, his hips bucking slightly. "Good," Greg hummed, licking from the root to the tip, tonguing the slit a bit as he did so. He used the broadest part of his tongue and wiggled it as he continued licking, tormenting Mycroft with clever flicks and gentle kisses. Mycroft held up his part of the bargain, not stopping the whimpers and soft moans as they poured out. "Beautiful." Mycroft jolted, his hands clutching at the smooth tile walls as the brown-haired man continued to unravel him, inch by inch. Finally Greg’s mouth closed around the tip of his cock, sinfully warm and wet. Mycroft couldn’t help the way his hips bucked him further into the heat.

“Oh god,” he choked out. Het felt hands on his hips, Greg holding him steady, and he looked down. The sight that awaited him was nearly embarrassing in its intensity and arousal thrummed even hotter through his veins. Greg's mouth was stretched around the tip of his cock, suckling gently, while his tan hands were pressed against the pale skin of Mycroft's thighs, thumbs holding his hips in place. He watched, torn between amazement and arousal as Greg slowly inched down his cock, settling his nose against the soft curls of Mycroft’s pubic hair. The taller man’s breath was coming in short, quick gasps as he fought to regain control. Reaching out, he cautiously twined a hand in Greg’s hair, reassured by the strands underneath his skin.

Greg stroked Mycroft's quivering thigh, comforting, before he swallowed and Mycroft's knees nearly gave out. The sensation of pressure and warmth against the head of his cock, pressed down the demon's throat, was pushing him so close to the edge that he wasn’t certain he was not going to tumble off an actual cliff. "Oh my god," he whimpered, clutching Greg's hair so hard that he felt he might be tearing some out. Greg chuckled, humming softly before he swallowed again.

Mycroft gasped, his mind going blank as he came. His body shuddered convulsively as he spurted his release into Greg's mouth. Slowly the aftershocks faded and he felt Greg lick him clean. His breath was coming in short little pants as he attempted to absorb what had just happened. Essentially his mind had crashed from the intensity of the orgasm. It was far better than anything Mycroft had ever given himself.

Eventually Greg wiped his mouth and nuzzled his way back up Mycroft's body, supporting the taller man as he sagged against the tile wall. Mycroft was dazed from the post-orgasmic high. "That was incredible," he murmured, instinctively wrapping his arms around Greg's shoulders. Greg's erection nudged insistently at Mycroft's hip and Mycroft moved enough so that he could glance down at it, somewhat apprehensive. "I would like to return the favor, although I fear I am not - well-versed in the skills you desire."

"While I can help with that - and I will - right now we can do something else." Greg winked at Mycroft, who was wondering how Greg could manage to be so composed after giving him such a mind-shattering orgasm. Gently grabbing one of Mycroft's hands, Greg pulled it down to his cock and loosely wrapped their hands about himself. The rhythm he set was slow and demonstrative, allowing Mycroft to see how he liked it. It wasn’t long before Mycroft figured it out and Greg used both hands to brace himself, careful to keep his body open and available so that Mycroft could see what he was doing. It wasn't that difficult, Mycroft noted, nor dissimilar from masturbating on his own. Long, tight strokes with a bit of a twist at the end pressing the foreskin over the glans. Experimentally Mycroft thumbed Greg's slit, noting with pleasure when Greg's hips bucked underneath his touch.

It made him feel powerful, feel desired, to have the composed, flirty man coming undone under his touch. His eyes roamed over Greg's body, hungrily devouring every movement, every sound that Greg made, all catalogued for later enjoyment and for comparison, to determine Greg’s enjoyment of future events. Future events? Mycroft had to have a small laugh at the idea of entering such things into his diary in the future. At one point he never would have considered himself lucky enough to contemplate a future with someone, much less someone as elegant as the man coming undone underneath his touch.

"So close," Greg gasped between moans. Mycroft allowed a small smile to grace his lips as he twisted his wrist and rubbed delicately across Greg's slit, feeling the man's cock thicken in his hand. He used his other hand to cup Greg's testicles, fingering them lightly and mimicking what Greg had done earlier. A low moan and Greg was coming all over Mycroft's hand. “Fuck, Mycroft,” he breathed as he came, panting as the aftershocks caused his body to convulse. Very tentatively Mycroft pumped him through his orgasm, watching the come stripe Greg's abdomen and the wall of the shower.

"We're going to have to clean that," Mycroft murmured absently, drawing a low chuckle from his lover. That's what they were now, he supposed. Unless Greg had a better term. He wouldn't be too surprised.

"Oh, we'll get quite clean." Greg nibbled on Mycroft's ear, and the younger man shivered underneath him. "You do such naughty things with your hands, Mr. Holmes," he rumbled. "I'll have to see what I can do to reciprocate next time."

"Next time?" Mycroft heard himself ask.

"Oh, yes," Greg answered with a smirk. "You didn't think you would get rid of me so easily?"

"I did plan to have a meal together prior to this part," Mycroft muttered, a light, teasing scowl on his face. Greg lifted his chin and pressed a chaste kiss to Mycroft's lips.

"We'll have a meal, and we'll have as many dates as you want," Greg assured him. "For now, let's get you all squeaky clean. Then we can worry about everything else."

The rest of the shower proceeded in relative peace, with only one or two minor distractions. They were young men, after all, and sometimes things got a bit exuberant. It was another several minutes before they had managed to dry off and put on at least some clothing. Greg was wearing something remarkably similar to his outfit from yesterday, although his trousers were jeans this time instead of leather. Mycroft was wearing a suit, although it was one of his less formally cut ones, chosen to match the casualty of Greg's apparel.

The next thing on his agenda was one of the more important. He needed to find Sherlock.

"Your brother?" Greg asked, having pulled Mycroft into a hug. His head was resting on Mycroft's shoulder, adjusting for the slight height difference, yet he felt sturdy under Mycroft's hands, warm and comforting.

"Yes," Mycroft replied, a slight frown furrowing a crease between his eyebrows. "At the very least, I need to ascertain whether or not he is sowing tales of..." he trailed off, attempting to procure a word that accurately described what Sherlock had walked in on this morning.

"Rampant sexual congress?" Greg suggested, not so helpfully. Mycroft lifted his head and scowled down at him. Greg quirked an eyebrow, grinning innocently.

"You are not one to get away with sporting such a look," Mycroft informed him. Greg chuckled throatily and kissed Mycroft's cheek before stepping out of his arms.

"You go find your brother, and I'll hang out here." Moving out of the bathroom and to the bed, Greg sat down on the edge. There was a sudden tiredness to his face. He looked so suddenly world-weary that Mycroft's chest clenched, positive that something was wrong. Greg noticed his expression and smiled. "Nothing's wrong, love, I just don't sleep well at night. Most of the time I sleep during the day."

"So what were you doing last night, then?" Mycroft's eyes widened. "Were you watching me?"

"Yup," Greg said with a laugh. "You're quite an expressive sleeper." He laughed at the expression on Mycroft’s face. "Don't worry. It was wonderful."

"Why do I not feel encouraged?" Mycroft muttered, his hand reaching for the doorknob. "If you desire anything, um..."

"I'll be able to find you," Greg assured him. "I'll probably sleep for a while. I sleep hard, so feel free to disturb me if you need anything." His wink was sinful, the double innuendo laden with meaning. Mycroft fled out the door and left Greg behind in his bedroom. He took a few moments to compose himself, willing the blush away from his face. It wouldn't do for Sherlock to see him in such a condition. Even with his composure restored, it would be a matter of seconds before Sherlock would be able to deduce at least some of what Mycroft had been up to. Sherlock wasn't as smart as he liked to believe he was, but that would come in time.

Sherlock's door was partially ajar, and Mycroft examined it cautiously before he pushed it open. No pudding in sight, no trip wires, no traps. No Sherlock, either, at least from what Mycroft could determine with a cursory glance. There was a soft scratching sound from the wardrobe and inwardly, Mycroft heaved a sigh. His younger brother really did need to pick a new hiding place. He was getting absolutely predictable. Walking over to the wardrobe without making a sound, he pulled open the door, revealing a knee buried underneath a pile of clothes. "I know the rest of you is in there, brother dear," Mycroft told the knee.

There was a rustling noise and then Sherlock's head popped out. The fourteen-year-old was glaring at his brother, his face the picture of petulance. One of those moods, then. "I see your sexual congress with the peon has not left you in a demonstrably better mood," Sherlock informed him.

"I fail to see how my sexual congress with him has anything to do with your opinions," Mycroft replied, arching an eyebrow. He refused to show it but he was rather amused by the way Sherlock had unknowingly chosen the same terminology as Greg. Mycroft was forced to back up rapidly when a pile of clothing nearly consumed his feet as Sherlock pushed his way out of his wardrobe. "Good heavens, Sherlock. Do take better care of your clothing."

Sherlock's scowl deepened and he trotted over to his bed, reaching underneath to pull out a small tray full of petri dishes. "I fail to see how my lack of diligence over my clothing is any of your concern."

"An experiment under your bed. Truly, Sherlock. Do you not have a more appropriate place to put it?" Mycroft tutted, shaking his head. Sherlock ignored him. "I have an experiment to propose, one that might interest you." Mycroft sighed, although he could tell by the slightest shift in Sherlock's position that he was listening to what his older brother was saying. "It would allow you access to a full laboratory, at least temporarily."

This caught Sherlock's attention, and he turned his head towards Mycroft. "What is it?" he demanded. "And I want full access to the laboratory, not just for this experiment."

"Unfortunately, Sherlock, I do not have continued access to this particular facility," Mycroft reminded him. "Although if you shall assist me in this matter, I will assist in your efforts to acquire you a permanent laboratory on these grounds."

Sherlock was suspicious, Mycroft could tell, but he was also tempted by the promise of access to a whole host of laboratory equipment that he was often denied. "What do you want?"

"I would like you to run a DNA sequence on -" Mycroft caught himself before he could say 'my peon'. His lip quirked up in half a smile. Sherlock's terminology was infectious at times. "On Greg."

"Who's that?" Sherlock inquired. His face shifted. "Your peon? Why?"

"I would like to evaluate some claims he has made," Mycroft answered, mostly honestly. If there was any way to ascertain the truth to Greg's words, it would be through his DNA. "He is willing.” Mycroft hoped. “And I thought that you might enjoy the experience." He paused, lifting an eyebrow. "Of course, if you would not like the access to the equipment to do so, then I shall not impose on you any longer." Mycroft took a step back, turning as if to leave.

"I shall do it," Sherlock interrupted him. "If only for the access to the laboratory equipment to further my other experiments." His eyes glazed over briefly, as if he was running through several lists in his mind. Gathering the list of things he would need for when he could attack the various machines present in the hidden laboratory. "Where is your peon?"

"He is asleep in my room." Mycroft had to bodily prevent his younger brother from darting out the door in his eagerness. "Shall we discuss the ground rules, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "No cutting off limbs, taking marrow, or violating his body in any way." His eyes swept up and down Mycroft's body. "That is left to you. Disgusting. Pedestrian. Deleting."

"I will allow you one vial of blood, a small hair sample, a small skin scraping, and a single finger or toenail sample as you desire. One, Sherlock. And small. We are not having the same result as we did last time I allowed you experiment upon the manservant."

"That was a rather large settlement," Sherlock admitted. Mycroft winced at the memory, then allowed Sherlock to lead the way back to his room.

When they walked in, Greg was half-curled in a ball on Mycroft's bed, his breathing deep and even. Sherlock arched an eyebrow in Mycroft's direction. Steadily ignoring his brother, Mycroft walked over and watched Greg for a few moments, nearly hypnotised by the steady movement of his chest. Despite his best efforts he was acutely aware of Sherlock's blatant staring and wasn't sure what was socially acceptable in that kind of situation. "Gregory?" he murmured, unable to help brushing a few strands of hair from the man's face. "Are you awake?"

Greg's eyes fluttered open and he caught sight of Mycroft. He smiled, so sweet and open that Mycroft felt his heart clench. "Hey, love," he said with a yawn, scrubbing a hand through his hair. The corner of Mycroft's lips quirked up at the sight of the strands sticking up, and he reached out and smoothed them down. Greg closed his eyes, seemingly comforted by Mycroft’s touch.

"That is utterly disgusting," Sherlock remarked scathingly from his part of the room. "May I have my samples now before I leave? This is infectious, and I am afraid to be caught up in your moose mating rituals."

"Who's the moose?" Greg asked, pushing up onto his elbows to peer at Sherlock. "You're Mycroft's little brother, aren't you?"

"If I must be associated with him, yes. I am. You are the degenerate he desires sexual congress with." Sherlock inched closer, the swabs and other equipment he needed for sample collection clutched in his hands.

"Rampant sexual congress, my little man. And we long since moved past desired." Greg looked at Mycroft, amusement clear in his expression. Which was good, since Mycroft's heart had temporarily stopped in his chest at Sherlock's words. Realizing what Greg had said, Mycroft blushed to the roots of his hair and Sherlock’s face twisted into a scowl.

"Deleting. May I collect my samples now?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Samples of what?" Greg looked at the swabs suspiciously, while the scissors got a more cautious glance. "Mycroft, what exactly did you promise him?"

Dutifully Mycroft recited what Sherlock was allowed, watching with hesitation as Greg's eyebrow lifted. He seemed more amused than offended, so Mycroft was left to hope that it would continue that way. Mycroft really didn't want to lose Greg over Sherlock, but the brilliant nutter was his younger brother, and they were something of a package deal. “Have at it,” Greg told the teenager. He extended his arm, flexing his fingers as he watched Sherlock poke for a vein.

"You're good at that," Greg remarked conversationally as Sherlock slipped the needle into his arm. Mycroft tensed, drawing glances from both men, before he exhaled and forced his body to relax. His tension had been far more conspicuous than he had intended. "You okay, love?"

"How long has your congress been carrying on?" Sherlock interrupted, his eyes narrowed and focused on Greg's face. "You are using a term of endearment that should not be loosely banded about."

"And you would know?" Greg pointed out. Sherlock scowled at him and withdrew the needle from Greg's vein, tilting the vial twice to ensure that the blood didn't clot before he could run his experiments on it. Mycroft watched like a hawk as Sherlock scraped Greg’s skin, collecting the flakes into a test tube. Third was the fingernail clippings and Greg humoured Sherlock's intense focus as he clipped a thumbnail into a tube. Greg fussed briefly over the hair sample until Mycroft and Sherlock agreed that the hair could be gathered from the base of Greg's neck, avoiding throwing off the rest of his appearance.

“Go ask the maid where to go.” Mycroft said something else in a language that Greg wouldn’t understand, but Sherlock would. The younger man lit up like someone had lit a fire under his arse and darted out of the room, practically thrumming with excitement.

"What's got him all wound up?" Greg asked, sitting on the edge of the bed now that he was more fully awake. He reached out and grabbed Mycroft's arm, drawing the taller man into a hug. Nuzzling Mycroft's abdomen, he held the other man to him. Tentatively Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg's shoulders, still getting used to being able to hug or touch another person so casually.

"I granted him access to a laboratory to run some tests," Mycroft told him, moving a hand to cautiously card his fingers through Greg's hair. Greg made a happy noise in his throat and rested his cheek against Mycroft's stomach, relaxing into his touch.

"You're checking out my story, aren't you?" Greg murmured into Mycroft's clothes. Mycroft paused in his movements, uncertainty freezing him in place. Had he made an error in judgment? Was Greg offended? "It's okay," he continued. "I understand." Nudging his head against Mycroft's hand, Greg quieted as soon as Mycroft resumed his movements. They remained like that for several long minutes, Greg melting against the taller man and Mycroft nearly hypnotised by the quiet peace that had grown between them. Was this what normal relationships were like, for normal people?

"It's not always going to be this easy," Mycroft said brokenly. His hand stopped, and then restarted at Greg's insistence. "I hope to rise far in the government, and that will require long periods of being away. I still have to finish University."

"We'll make do," Greg said simply. He shifted his head so that he could look up at Mycroft. "You'll come back to me."

"I've known you barely a day," Mycroft pointed out sensibly. "Yet we're talking a long-term relationship." Greg hummed his agreement, squeezing Mycroft's waist before he released him.

"Is that a problem?" Greg asked, looking up at Mycroft from where he was sitting, his hands on the bed on either side of his hips. Mycroft thought faster than he ever had before. It was a simple answer to what was essentially a simple question. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Gregory's lips.

"I will come back to you," Mycroft promised, his lips trailing to mouth at the smooth spot underneath Greg's ear.

"I know." Greg smiled at him and stood, tugging him closer for a proper kiss, teeth and tongues moving lazily against each other. "Will you show me around the house? I haven't seen the inside before."

"Of course." Taking Greg's hands in his, Mycroft twined the fingers together, smiling cautiously at his - whatever he was. "What are we, anyway?" He blushed, his mind flashing back to their time in the shower, the time spent in the bed - and he didn't even have a proper label for this man!

"We can be whatever you want to be," Greg assured him. "Boyfriends, partners, lovers..." Mycroft's ears turned pink at that last word and the wink Greg shot him was decadently naughty. "You make it so easy."

"I like partner," Mycroft said finally. Greg smiled his acceptance and Mycroft tugged him out the door to start the tour.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorryyyyyy this took forever. ;~; Got a bit caught up in my other projects.
> 
> As usual, you can follow me at [my tumblr](http://iolre.tumblr.com) for updates/progress reports/general writerly whining/etc.
> 
> I'm heading on hiatus at the end of this week, unfortunately, so we're not looking for another chapter probably another three weeks or so. I will do my best! Promise!

The tour had been relatively quick and easy, for Greg had demonstrated a rather vast knowledge of the structure of the Holmes Estate. Sherlock had spent the entirety of the afternoon and well into the evening in the lab, returning only to demand more samples (which Greg had refused to provide). They had left the teenager sulking. Unfortunately, that mood did not last for long, for soon Greg was dodging carefully-set up booby traps that Sherlock was determined to utilise to procure more samples - by force, if he had to.

“Your brother’s determined,” Greg said, dodging the arrow that grazed over his head. “Not sure if he was trying to skewer me with that.”

“One can never put things past Sherlock,” Mycroft answered with a somewhat sour acceptance of their fate. Finally, late in the evening Greg acquiesced to Sherlock’s requests, handing over the saliva and blood samples that the curly-haired boy demanded.

“I was afraid of him coming into the bedroom in the middle of the night with an axe,” Greg explained to his partner cheerfully.

Mycroft snorted elegantly. “As if Sherlock would sully his hands with an axe.”

“Didn’t stop the crossbow, or the pick-axe, or the rake,” Greg retorted.

Mycroft conceded the point with a tilt of his head. Sherlock could get quite inventive when the mood took him. The crossbow had been new, however, and Mycroft resolved to, at some point, discover where Sherlock had gotten his. “So what are you going to do tonight?” he asked Greg, sitting on the edge of the bed and starting to remove his shoes. Carefully he untied the laces, working the slick leather shoes off of his feet and placing them in their designated spot. Calculated order was a comfort to him, so he kept his things routine as often as possible.

Greg watched him from a few feet away, a half-smile on his lips. “Might read a book,” he said slowly. His gaze flickered over to the bookshelves that Mycroft had tucked away in corners. “You don’t seem to lack any books here.” Mycroft removed both of his socks next and straightened them habitually before placing them in the dirty laundry receptacle. Hoping he looked more brave than he felt, he walked over to his wardrobe and pulled out some pyjamas. He began to undo his buttons, steeling himself so that his fingers did not shake. His goal was to look nonchalant, as if stripping in front of Greg was a normal, everyday occurrence. He chose to ignore the fact they had only known each other a few days. Inconsequential details.

It was quite the victory when he undid the last of his buttons, for Greg had leaned against the side of the bed and was now focusing intently on everything Mycroft was doing. The demon would lick his lips every time Mycroft made eye contact, so he was left blushing furiously and staring at the floor. Hands on his shoulders made him jolt and take a step back, and he looked up into Greg’s warm eyes. “Some day,” the demon murmured, “you won’t be so shy about this.”

Greg’s hands were warm on Mycroft’s skin as he slipped them underneath the shoulders of his shirt and slid it down his arms, eyes examining every inch of pale skin as it was revealed. Mycroft backed up a half-step as Greg leaned down to kiss and nip at his neck. He emitted a breathy squeak as Greg latched on and started sucking. The demon nipped and worked on the skin in turn. It felt fantastic, like a small leech attached to Mycroft’s skin, but far more wonderful. Greg licked his way across to the other side of his neck, giving it the same treatment.

“Oh god,” Mycroft whimpered as Greg’s hands encircled his waist and slipped underneath the waistband, drawing him closer so he could grind their hips together. His breathing hitched and he squirmed, trying to get closer and get more of that mouth on his skin.

“Ask me,” Greg murmured between nips and gentle kisses. Mycroft groaned a protest, writhing under the intensity of his ministrations. Pleading, his hands slid down and plucked at Greg’s hips, trying to gain permission. “Ask.”

“May I…” The words caught in his throat when Greg’s teeth sank into the skin of his throat, the sharp burst of pain quickly soothed by warm tongue. “May I touch you?” he forced out.

“What do you want to do?” Greg asked, pulling away from Mycroft’s neck to face him. He looked down at the purple bruises on Mycroft’s neck, satisfaction coursing through his veins. The auburn-haired man looked at him, pleading.

“What you did, in the shower,” he managed to get out, stumbling over the words as his cheeks got darker and darker. Greg’s grin was wicked with a hint of smugness. “I want to try.”

“You can kneel if you’d like, or we can get on the bed,” Greg murmured, a softer smile on his face. His hands were tender and he carded fingers through Mycroft’s hair, pressing a reassuring kiss to his lips. Mycroft dropped to his knees, ignoring the part of his mind that pointed out that his suit trousers would be rather wrinkled next time. He stared speculatively at the fly of Greg’s jeans, somewhat intimidated by the bulge. “We’ll go slow, love.”

Mycroft nodded his thanks, hands settling on Greg’s hips. “Start with the zipper,” Greg instructed, shifting slightly as Mycroft’s hands quickly unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers. Tentatively the politician-to-be slipped his fingers into the waistband of Greg’s trousers and pants, tugging them down and freeing his considerable erection. It looked far bigger than Mycroft remembered.

It smelled - not bad, Mycroft considered. Something musky, but very much like how Greg’s skin had smelled the day before. Cautiously he licked the head, his hands on Greg’s thighs and preventing the demon from moving. Which was beneficial, although it did not stop Mycroft from jolting backward as the door threw itself open. There was no hiding what he was doing nor his intent to continue, not with Greg’s erection jutting out mere inches from his lips.

Sherlock stood in the door, one hand still on the knob. His mouth was half-open, the beginnings of an imperious expression ruined by the horror that had taken over his face. Mycroft stood up and turned, shielding Greg from his brother’s view. Greg discretely tucked himself back into his trousers, seemingly unperturbed by the turn their evening had taken. “Hi, little man,” Greg greeted him.

This seemed to crack Sherlock’s shock, for the teenager fluffed himself up. “I am not little,” he snapped. While Mycroft was certain that it would not be the case for much longer, Sherlock was, for now, at least six inches shorter than Greg. Which made the irritated glare Sherlock sent in the demon’s direction all that funnier.

Mycroft cleared his throat, drawing the attention of both Sherlock and Greg. “Sherlock, why did you come here?”

Sherlock seemed to remember the papers he was clutching tightly in a hand. He marched up to Greg, studiously avoiding looking at anything but his face, and thrust the papers at him. “I demand you explain this.” Mycroft shifted to watch his partner thumb through the papers, arms crossing over his bare chest. It was then that he realized he was still topless. Wincing, he grabbed his pyjama top and pulled it on, ignoring the hideous way it contrasted with his suit trousers. He would change those, too, if he did not fear Sherlock having a heart attack at the sight.

“They’re DNA results,” Greg said, offering them to Mycroft for his inspection. Before Mycroft could grab them Sherlock had moved closer and snatched the papers back, pointing to a few specific sections.

“There are at least two DNA markers that do not match the normal variations!” he said fiercely, his finger stabbing the papers with such force that he nearly tore them in two. “At least two! Fifty percent of your DNA does not seem to be encoded!”

“I’m a demon, Sherlock,” Greg told him, walking past Mycroft to sit on the bed, his legs crossed beneath him. “Halfway, anyway.” A shadow of something passed over Greg’s face, and Mycroft revisited his notes on things that had distressed Greg prior. His parentage was part of it.

“That’s not possible,” Sherlock informed Greg smartly, a scowl on his face. “I want to know how you faked these results.”

Greg offered his arm, his face lined with a tension that had not been there prior. “You can take as many blood vials as you want, test them again and again, and the results aren’t going to change.”

Sherlock took a partial step back, ice-blue eyes taking in every minute facet of Greg’s face. Mycroft nearly felt proud of his brother - or he would have, if that would have not ruined everything. Sherlock had to be handled delicately, for the teenager was nearly as fragile as the china his parents often shattered when they fought. A part of his mind uncomfortably reminded him of how often Sherlock was treated like a tool to be fought over and with instead of someone to be loved, and cherished.

Both men had grown up in a home devoid of much affection. Mycroft had adapted, had come to expect nothing from other people. Sherlock had been alienated, eager and hopeful yet banished from the rest of humanity due to his intelligence and inability to understand societal norms. Mycroft had tried to help, but by the time the majority of Sherlock’s problems had emerged, he had been shipped off to school and Sherlock had been outside of his sphere of influence.

There was little that Mycroft regretted more. He had failed his brother, and he could not fault Sherlock for hating him for it. “Do you want me to explain it to you?” Greg said, breaking the silence with his gentle words. Sherlock seemed to stiffen, immediately suspicious. He shook his head, quick, jerky motions looking alien on the teenager that seemed to move with such an easy grace.

“I want to see if I can isolate the DNA base and discover how they code themselves,” Sherlock said, his voice quieter.

“You may have access to the laboratory for a week,” Mycroft told his brother. “I shall ensure that sufficient nutrients and other nourishment is sent your way. If you desire anything else, please ask, and it shall be prepared.” He saw Sherlock start to consider the question and interrupted his thoughts. “Within reason, of course. The ban on explosives is still in place.”

“No one used that building, anyway,” Sherlock muttered petulantly. He shuffled the papers in his thin hands and walked towards the door, an uncharacteristic hesitancy altering his normal, long stride. “You two may…resume whatever you were doing.” He shuddered. “Disgusting. Deleting.” With that, he walked out the door and closed it behind him.

“I am worried about him,” Mycroft said to no one, his eyes on the spot that Sherlock had just vacated. It was unlike his brother to switch between moods so quickly. He could only hope that there was an organic reason behind the sudden change. “Mother is an alcoholic. Father has abused intravenous - shall we call them medicine? They are certainly not, but it sounds more respectable.” He shook his head. “Addiction runs in this family. I am - Sherlock is so vulnerable.” Mycroft struggled to put his feelings into words, his hands clenching uselessly into fists as he attempted to control and label his emotions. It was like a blind man being encouraged to describe colours he had never seen; an exercise in futility.

Pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand, he gathered his pyjama trousers with the other and silently walked into the bathroom. Finally, his breathing slowed and he allowed himself to change. Hands clenched into fists as he fought off waves of insecurity, of worry and sadness and whatever other emotion felt it had the right to set up shop in Mycroft’s body. What had he been doing, sharing that much with someone, who, at the very core, was still a relative stranger?

He sank to his knees by the large, pristine tub, wrapping his arms about his legs and laying his forehead on them. What had he been thinking? Or rather, he reminded himself, it was illogical to assume that he had been thinking at all. He might have been thinking, but it was not with his brain. Instead, he had allowed himself to think with a far more primal organ and look where it had gotten him. Curled up by a bathtub worried about how badly things were going to end.

Sherlock had asked him if he trusted Greg, and he did in a way. Greg was calm, comfort and warmth, an anchor for Mycroft in the harbour of his unpleasant thoughts. He swayed and held steady, unchanging. Mycroft could be himself around the demon. At the same time it pleased him, it scared him. He had been taught from an early age that it was important to allow no one to have a hold over oneself, especially not him, who had a long way to go.

So deep he was in his thoughts that, when arms wrapped around his shoulders and underneath his knees, he did not realize that he was being lifted and carried. Instinctively he leaned into the warm chest, eyes closing as he inhaled Greg’s familiar scent. It was like being a child, feeling coddled and cared about. Not that his parents ever had, but he had fond memories of his nannies. As he grew he realized they were being paid to care, but sometimes he would just close his eyes and pretend that they thought he was worth something without the paycheck.

A vague part of him registered as the person carrying him scooted further up on the bed, gathering Mycroft up again and cradling him to his chest. It was slightly awkward, tall as he was, but it was comforting at the same time. He felt cherished and cared for, two emotions that were so rare that he could barely identify them. It was a warmth pulsing through his chest, threatening to choke him.

He felt stripped bare, as if everything he thought was there for his carrier to witness. It was an oddly soothing vulnerability. He had nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of. He would be accepted for everything he was and everything he had been. Slowly his eyes fluttered open, the soft grey cotton of Greg’s shirt coming into view. The strong arms were wrapped against him, holding him against a broad chest. He could feel Greg’s lips against his temple, the demon nuzzling him, quiet murmurs of comfort wrapping around Mycroft like a blanket.

It was ridiculous. It should have been ridiculous. Mycroft was twenty years old, not a child missing his mother. But it wasn’t. There was nothing to say, so he stayed quiet, eyes half-closed as Greg’s hand slid up and down his arm. What was it about him that made him so different? What about Greg took all of Mycroft’s barriers and shattered them, leaving him open and exposed? It was frustrating and scintillating, hatred and hope mingling together to create something that Mycroft could not understand.

“I’ve watched you for a long time,” Greg said into Mycroft’s hair, his voice quiet and distant-sounding. There was no other noise in the room, and Mycroft felt suspended in time, as if it was just him and Greg and nothing else mattered. It was surreal. “I’ve watched you nearly your whole life.” Soft warmth as Greg inhaled and exhaled, Mycroft shivering as the air touched his body. It should sound creepy, it should sound stalkerish - Mycroft should be alarmed, offended. But he wasn’t.

“Why?” Mycroft asked, his voice barely able to be heard. There was something in the air, some growing connection that Mycroft was afraid to break. There was something at risk, something that could either break or turn into something more wonderful than he could even begin to imagine.

Fingers slowly carded through his hair, tilting his head back just enough so Greg could press a kiss to his temple. “Even as a child you intrigued me. I’ve been around a long time, Mycroft. I knew your father when he was young. I saw what he became, I saw how he treated you. I watched you sit out in that clearing, I heard you cry when you thought no one else was around.” Mycroft shifted slightly as he felt Greg breathe, the air warming Mycroft’s skin. “I saw you pull everything you had together, watched you present yourself to the world as someone composed and calm, above everything you had faced.”

Mycroft’s eyes were nearly closed, hypnotised as he was by Greg’s words and low, gentle tone. “I am a half-breed, born of a demon mother with a human father. I never knew my father. I don’t even know his name.” There was a slight tremour to Greg’s hands now, and Mycroft reached out blindly and took a hand in his, lacing the fingers together instinctively in a show of support. Greg squeezed his hand gratefully. “Full blood demons have a sharper look to them. Their features are like Sherlock, all angles and sharpness. I was blunted because of my father - all they had to do was look at me and they could deduce my lineage.”

“I had to work harder to conquer milestones that came easily to the other. It wasn’t a huge difference in terms of size and speed, but it was perceptible, and I was the weak link.” Greg smiled crookedly. “I won’t go into detail, because it’s not pleasant, but needless to say, it ended badly for me.” He brought Mycroft’s hand to his lips and gently kissed the twined fingers. “I was taken to our leader and banished from Hell.”

“Because you were taunted? That doesn’t make sense.” He knew he should feel ridiculous, practically sitting in Greg’s lap, but it was comforting, and Greg didn’t seem to mind.

“I didn’t fight back,” Greg told him softly. “I forgave them. It was unacceptable.”

“So what does that mean, being banished?” Mycroft inquired quietly, thumb stroking over Greg’s hand absentmindedly.

“I’ll die eventually. For now I don’t age normally, so it’s a ways off. That could be changed, if I find someone worth changing for.” Greg seemed to pause, consider his words. “I can’t go back. Maybe one more time, but it would be the final time.”

“Do you want to go back?”

“Not at all,” Greg said fervently.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said suddenly, breaking the elongated silence and surprising them both.

“Why sorry?” Greg shifted slightly, lips grazing Mycroft’s forehead. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I - I’m not good at this.” For the first time since he had sank down in the loo, he tilted his head back and looked into Greg’s chocolate eyes. There was something in there that Mycroft couldn’t identify, something that frightened him at the same time it made his insides melt.

“Yes you are.” The corner of Greg’s mouth tilted up, a half-smile that was oddly reassuring. “You’re you, and that’s all I’d ever ask.” Mycroft stirred slightly, his head shifting back down so he wasn’t directly facing the other man. It was a bit too much, too much sensation and emotion and Mycroft couldn’t handle it. Part of him felt like he was drowning. The other half was focused on Greg’s hand in his, the warmth anchoring him as his mind fought to spiral into chaos. “I know this is hard for you. I know it’s new. I told you we would go as slow as you would like, and I meant that.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured, not knowing what else to say. No one else had ever treated him like that, treated him like he was something precious and worth treating differently. It was dazzling. A surge of confidence thrummed in his veins, and he pulled away from Greg, sitting up so he could face him. “I want to do that.”

“Do what?” Greg asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Touch you. With my mouth.” Try as he might, Mycroft couldn’t prevent the blush from creeping up his cheeks and down his neck.

A slow smile slid over Greg’s face, quickly marred by concern. “Are you certain? I don’t expect anything, you know. You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Mycroft said firmly. Moving slowly (his muscles were sore from staying tense for so long), he straddled Greg’s lap. “I want to.” He pressed a kiss to Greg’s lips, more demanding than he had been before. Startled but in a pleased way, Greg didn’t hesitant to kiss back, winding his arms around the man in his lap. The kiss was sweet, tongues exploring and gentle, mouths moving in unison.

Mycroft startled slightly when Greg slipped a hand underneath his shirt. Greg waited patiently until Mycroft adjusted, curling his hand over Mycroft’s side and gently caressing his abdomen with his thumb as they continued to kiss. Mycroft was forced to pull back, breath coming in short gasps as he rested his forehead against Greg’s, trying to restore oxygen to his lungs. Greg’s hand slid out from underneath Mycroft’s shirt as the demon reached down and grabbed the hem of his top, pulling it off and tossing it off to the side. His chest was bared to Mycroft’s touch.

Tentatively Mycroft put his hands on Greg’s sides. “Here, hold on.” Lifting his head at the sound of Greg’s voice, Mycroft scooted back when indicated and waited for Greg to arrange himself on his back. “Gives you better access this way,” he told Mycroft. “When you want to, just hook your thumbs in the waistband and I’ll lift my hips so you can take my bottoms off.”

Flushing a darker pink at the implication of Greg’s words, Mycroft nodded before bending over to kiss and nuzzle Greg’s neck. He nipped tentatively, smoothing the spot with his tongue and delighting in the jolt Greg had made underneath him and the soft whimper he had pulled from the demon’s throat. Careful to soothe after each nip and sucking lightly on the skin, Mycroft continued his ministrations until Greg had red-purple blotches on his neck that were close to the ones Mycroft wore around his.

A feral part of him was pleased at having marked his territory, indicating to the world that Greg was Mycroft’s. A more proper, logical part of him found the whole thing distasteful and an utter waste of energy. Mycroft ignored the logical part and trailed his way down Greg’s chest, drifting to a nipple and mouthing it shyly, licking the bud and applying the barest pressure with his teeth. Greg jerked and moaned, and Mycroft could feel the demon’s hands flutter as they clenched at the bedsheets. It was a heady feeling, the control he had. His mouth drifted to the other nipple and gave it similar treatment, Mycroft cataloging each of Greg’s reactions to determine what got the best response. He had a feeling it would be useful data later.

Trailing farther down, Mycroft mouthed at Greg’s hipbones, pausing when he reached the fabric of Greg’s pyjama bottoms. Remembering what the demon had said he hooked his fingers in the band, somewhat startled when Greg lifted his hips up. His erection was easy to see, a damp spot around the head of his cock as precome soaked through the fabric. Carefully Mycroft pulled the clothes down, freeing Greg’s cock and watching it slap against his belly, precome beading at the tip. Greg kicked off his pants once Mycroft had gotten them down far enough, sending them flying to some part of the room that Mycroft didn’t care about.

It was then that he realized that he was still fully clothed while his partner was naked. Greg didn’t seem the least bit bothered by it, so Mycroft shoved the thought aside and eyed his next target. “Grip the base, if you want,” Greg murmured, eyes half-lidded. “Start slowly. Don’t take too much into your mouth.” A wry chuckle. “You don’t have to take any, if you don’t want.”

Carefully Mycroft gripped Greg’s cock around the bottom of the shaft, his mind mentally making a comparison. Greg was slightly thicker with a curve near the tip, but otherwise he was no different. He shifted on the bed until he was face to face with the erection. It was now or never. Leaning forward, he tentatively licked the slit, eliciting a moan from the man underneath him. “Put your arm over my thighs, love,” Greg groaned softly.

Mycroft obeyed immediately, pressing a forearm over the tops of Greg’s thighs. He kissed his way down the side of Greg’s shaft, gentle, open-mouthed kisses as he adjusted to the taste and texture. While he had gotten close to Greg’s cock earlier, this was different. His irrational behavior earlier and Greg’s response had heightened the intimacy to the point the experiences were no longer in the same realm of thought. His nose nuzzled the dark curls of Greg’s pubic hair and he inhaled, eyes closing as he sought to memorise the way Greg smelled. The demon made a strangled noise underneath him and Mycroft immediately opened his eyes and looked at him from where he was crouched. “Sorry,” he apologised.

“Nothing to apologise for, love,” Greg responded immediately. His fingers were digging into the bed and his breathing was coming faster, causing his words to come out differently. It was fascinating, and Mycroft detached part of his brain to study the difference. Satisfied that he hadn’t hurt his partner, he tentatively licked from the root of Greg’s cock to the tip, tonguing the slit and letting a smile slide across his lips when Greg’s hips tried to rise off of the bed. Mycroft’s arm across his thighs prevented Greg from thrusting into his mouth.

Slowly Mycroft took the tip of Greg’s cock into his mouth, surprised how right it felt to feel the spongy tissue hitting his palate. He inched down until he felt the tip hit the back of his throat. Hollowing his cheeks he sucked, hard, nearly flinching when he felt Greg move underneath him. The demon wasn’t making much sense, mostly unintelligible sounds, and Mycroft couldn’t help but be the slightest bit proud. He swirled his tongue around as much as he could. “You could, ergh, move your, oh god your mouth, hand if you want,” Greg got out between moans and quiet whimpers. His fists were clenched so hard in the sheets that Mycroft half-feared he would tear them. Not that he really cared at this point in time, but it was the principle.

It took a few moments to coordinate his hand with his mouth. Slowly he drew back, leaving just the tip in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the spot at the bottom of the glans that seemed extra sensitive before going back down, careful not to take in too much. At the same time his hand pumped Greg’s shaft, turning the demon into a writhing, moaning mess. He sucked and licked and pumped and Greg garbled some mangled words that didn’t actually mean anything.

Without warning Mycroft felt him stiffen and felt the cock swell in his mouth. Warm fluid hit the back of his throat and he swallowed instinctively, continuing until most of the salty fluid was gone. It hadn’t tasted completely horrible, Mycroft conceded, and he licked until Greg shuddered underneath him at the stimulation. Finally pulling back he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, briefly contemplating what he had just done.

Gently he was pulled up level to Greg’s face. The demon kissed him, a warmth in his face that made Mycroft feel gooey and uncomfortable. “Thank you,” Greg murmured against his lips, pressing chaste, gentle kisses to Mycroft’s wet lips. “May I return the favor?” Mycroft nodded and shifted so that he was straddling Greg, reaching down and pulling off his shirt. He felt shy, but the embarrassment was less and he made no movement to cover himself.

There was something proud in Greg’s eyes that Mycroft liked, and he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Greg’s lips. Next thing he knew he was the one on his back, Greg trailing open-mouth kisses down his chest. He flicked his tongue over Mycroft’s nipples, causing the auburn-haired man to groan and arch his back, seeking more contact with the hot cavern of Greg’s mouth. “Good boy,” Greg murmured, licking Mycroft’s navel as he continued down. He slipped his fingers into Mycroft’s waistband as he mouthed at Mycroft’s cock through his pyjamas.

Carefully Greg pulled down Mycroft’s pyjamas and pants, leaving him naked and fully erect, precome seeping from his slit and pooling on his belly. Mycroft writhed as Greg licked the glans, tongue wiggling patterns on the overheated skin that made him buck his hips. He whimpered when the warmth of Greg’s mouth surrounded the tip of his cock, taking in the glans and sucking gently. His hips were thrusting up, seeking to push himself further into the sinful heat.

Greg took him all the way down, his nose buried in Mycroft’s pubic hair. Mycroft nearly sobbed at the feeling as Greg swallowed, the sensation firing away in the nerve endings in his body and setting everything alight with pleasure. “Oh god,” he whimpered, fingers clutching uselessly at the sheets. Now he knew why Greg had grabbed so hard at them. It was like the time in the shower, but with the added intimacy it was even better. Then the demon hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard, swallowing simultaneously. Mycroft’s vision went grey as he convulsed, his orgasm taking him by surprise. Greg licked him through it, fingers reassuring and warm on the skin of Mycroft’s thighs.

Finally he pulled away, nuzzling at Mycroft’s soft cock for a few seconds before he lifted his head up to smile. Mycroft stared at him, not certain what to say. Greg crawled up his body and kissed him gently, a chaste but affectionate peck on his lips. “Thank you,” Greg told him softly, his voice gentle. Pressing another kiss to Mycroft’s forehead he got up, rummaging about the room and putting his pants back on. He carefully threaded Mycroft’s legs through his pants and lifted them up to settle them on his hips. “I didn’t think you’d be comfortable sleeping completely naked,” Greg told him, settling them on the bed. “You can use the duvet if you want.”

Mycroft scooted closer to the demon, slipping an arm over him and curling closer. Greg was warm and solid against Mycroft’s thinner form. Slotting a leg between Greg’s, he got as close as he could, tucking his head into the hollow at Greg’s throat. “Okay,” he murmured.

“Hmm?” Greg asked lazily, fingers trailing up and down Mycroft’s spine. It was hypnotising, and Mycroft could already feel himself drifting off to sleep. He shook his head slightly, unable (or unwilling? He wasn’t sure) to voice the muddled thoughts rolling through his mind. Greg pressed a kiss to his temple and settled against Mycroft, holding him as he drifted off into a pleasant sleep.

Mycroft woke up to gentle kisses being pressed to his lips, cheek, chin, forehead, eyelids. Shifting slightly and making a soft noise, he opened his eyes, drawing a smile from the demon still curled possessively around him. “Good morning,” Greg said softly, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to the tip of Mycroft’s nose. The next noise was a little growly and Mycroft curled closer, his eyes closing instinctively as he tried to chase the last few tendrils of sleep. “Up with you, love.” Greg nuzzled him and pressed another kiss to his face, coaxing.

“No,” Mycroft protested, although he had the feeling it came out more like a muffled ‘nmph’.

“You leave tomorrow, don’t you?” At that Mycroft’s eyes flew open, his mind trying to register what was underneath Gregory’s tone. Wistful, worried, cautious - mingled with more that Mycroft could not identify.

“Yes,” he said cautiously, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. There was but an inch between him and his partner, so he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Greg’s parted lips. Instinctively Greg’s arm tightened around him, drawing him closer as he kissed him back. It was wonderful, Mycroft thought absently, as they kissed lazily for several minutes. He could feel Greg’s erection pressing into his thigh, but there was nothing hurried about his movements, nothing indicative of him desiring any more than Mycroft was giving.

Finally they separated, Mycroft meeting Greg’s eyes and watching the demon’s gaze flit about his face. It made him anxious, wondering what Greg was looking for. Was there something he wanted that he wasn’t getting? There was no indicators of such, but he knew he was not a expert in that field. Since there was, overall, little he was not an expert in, it was a disconcerting thought.

“Will you come home for Christmas?” Greg asked, his voice low.

“I was not planning on it,” Mycroft replied, questioning.

“I want to stay here to keep an eye on Sherlock,” Greg said quietly, and Mycroft could feel him tense. Why was he tense?

“I - okay.” He blinked a few times, uncertain as to what Greg wanted him to say. He was probably missing something, and he knew it, but there was nothing he could do but wait for his failure to be revealed, his mistake to be rubbed in his face and used to mock him.

“I can come visit you, if you’d like.” Greg ran a hand gently through Mycroft’s strands of auburn hair, something uncertain to his movement that bothered the taller man. Greg was supposed to be the confident one, the leading one.

“What is making you so nervous?” he blurted. Greg looked startled, blinking twice before he schooled his expression into something more serene.

“I didn’t know if you would be mad that I wanted to stay,” the demon answered quietly. “I can’t go with you, not yet. I want you to come back this Christmas. Say your final goodbyes to your parents - yeah, I know you don’t want to, I wouldn’t want to either. But it’s important to have closure.” He leaned forward and kissed Mycroft gently. “But this is a partnership. I want to know what you want.”

Mycroft took a moment to think it over. What did he want? What did he want from Greg, what did he want from their relationship? “I want you,” he said slowly, feeling his way tenuously through the conversation. “I want you to be there when I wake up, and be there if I am able to sleep. I want you to be there with me when things are good and when things are bad. I want to be able to depend on you.” His eyes were unfocused, staring through Greg’s shoulder instead of at it. “I want you to watch while I grow into someone who is strong enough to stand by your side without being shadowed by things that have happened in the past.”

“You’ll have that, someday.” Greg kissed him. “If you still want it once you’re all powerful.”

“It’s just a minor position in the British Government,” Mycroft reminded him, ignoring the snort of derision. “What do you want?”

“You,” Greg replied simply. “Whatever you’ll give me.”

“That’s not fair,” Mycroft said, a slight frown creating a crease between his eyebrows. “More detail, please.”

Greg’s smile was wistful. “Let’s just say that there’s some details not yet taken care of, but I want all that you want.” He stretched slightly, just enough to press him closer to Mycroft. “I can’t come with you and make all of that a reality yet.”

“Okay,” Mycroft agreed, distracted by the play of Greg’s muscles under his skin. Greg chuckled, low and throaty, and pressed a soft kiss to his hair.

“You have a mobile, yeah?” Greg asked. “We can text, at least.”

“I abhor texting,” Mycroft admitted.

Greg snorted. “Of course you do. We can call, then, or something else. That way I know when I can come visit.”

“My Uni is a couple hours away by train,” Mycroft said, the tiniest bit doubtful.

“Shadow travel is quick,” Greg answered. “One of the perks of being a demon. Although it does mean I can’t really travel near the full moon.”

Both men were distracted when there was a soft buzzing sound. Realizing it was his mobile, Mycroft reluctantly dislodged himself from Greg’s grip and rolled over until he could reach the small device. It was an alert, letting him know that his parents were on their way. He groaned and rolled onto his back, his arm covering his eyes. Great. That was all he needed.

“What is it, love?” Greg inquired quietly, settling next to him.

“My parents.” Mycroft moved his arm to his side, staring blankly at the ceiling. “Apparently breaking one set of china wasn’t enough. They’re back for the day and intend to see me off in the morning.” His snort was incredulous. “If they remember, anyway.”

Greg gathered Mycroft up, cuddling him close and kissing him gently. Mycroft shook his head and gently pushed Greg away. “I can’t,” he said quietly. “I have to go get ready to present myself to them for their inspection.” On autopilot he stood up, walking to the wardrobe and gathering what he needed before he entered the bathroom. His shower was quick and methodical, cleaning himself from top to bottom.

He did not hear Greg enter the bathroom, did not see him until he stepped out of the shower and saw him leaning against the counter and watching him with a wary expression. Mycroft closed his eyes briefly, opening them as he sought and seized the towel he had been looking for and started to dry himself off. He did not say anything, for there was nothing to say. He did not feel, did not allow himself to think about what he was doing. Consequently, when he felt warm hands on his, he jerked away, eyes wide and reproachful.

“No,” Mycroft said firmly.

“Yes,” Greg responded softly. “Mycroft, you’re closing off from me.”

“No.” Mycroft frowned slightly this time. Was he? There was some tight feeling in his chest, like someone had their hand beneath his ribs and was squeezing. It was uncomfortable but not painful, and he pushed it away. Was that what Greg meant? “No?” he repeated, questioning this time.

“Yes,” was the quiet whisper as Greg’s lips brushed his temple. This time Mycroft released the towel as he exhaled, releasing the barriers that he had unknowingly built up. He allowed Greg to dry him off, his mind centering on the warmth of the demon’s hands as they snuck in caresses of the damp skin. “We’re in this together,” Greg murmured, his voice low and hypnotic. “I can’t be there with you, but I want to help you get ready.”

“Why.” Mycroft’s eyes flickered in Greg’s direction, the motion uncertain.

“It makes me feel better,” Greg assured him. He stepped back to allow Mycroft to slide on his pants and socks. Next was a trip to the wardrobe to select the rest of his ensemble. Greg mostly watched, but Mycroft would select something and hold it up for his approval, proceeding only when he received a nod.

For some reason, the simple question and approval process made something warm grow in Mycroft’s stomach. Knowing that someone cared, knowing that someone was there for him - it was something he felt he would never get used to. He did not want to, either. Finally he slid on his jacket and adjusted his tie so the knot was properly visible. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, shifting this way and that so that he could examine the way the suit lay on him. Greg was watching him with a half smile on his face, something fond that sent butterflies into Mycroft’s insides.

“You should put some clothes on,” Mycroft informed him, a matching smile on his face as he leaned in and kissed him.

Greg snorted and stretched out on the bed. “I quite like this.”

“You mean you’ve gotten used to the pants, then?” Mycroft inquired.

“Pants aren’t too bad, I guess.” Greg seemed to consider this. “Especially when you’ve got a sexy bloke to help you take them off.” His grin spread when Mycroft flushed to the tips of his ears. “I’ll stop teasing you, love.”

“It is not - horrible,” Mycroft admitted. “I quite like it.”

There was a gentle knock on the door, waiting for an acknowledgment before it opened. Sherlock stood in the doorway, dressed in his normal pyjama bottoms and dressing gown. He strode officiously over to Greg, a scowl on his face. “You’re not going to make an appearance,” Mycroft said flatly, unable to deny his brief disappointment. Nor was he surprised when Sherlock ignored him, his focus on the demon.

“Are there others like you?” Sherlock asked, hands pressed together palm to palm and held not far from his lips. It was an odd posture to maintain while standing, yet Sherlock managed it without looking as if anything was out of place.

“No,” Greg replied easily. “Not that I know of. Most of us…” he trailed off, visibly pondering something. “No.”

“You aren’t saying something,” Sherlock muttered.

“Most of us don’t make it to adulthood, okay?” Greg snapped, something bitter to his tone that was so unlike him that Mycroft couldn’t help but flinch. “Most of us are killed, if we don’t kill ourselves. I was lucky and was banished.”

Sherlock drew back, something odd to his expression that Mycroft could not place. It made him uneasy. He was distracted when another soft buzz indicated his parent’s arrival. Schooling his face into the appropriate expression he pressed a perfunctory kiss to Greg’s lips and headed towards the door. “Sherlock, do behave,” he said quietly, an eye on his younger brother. Sherlock scowled and then deliberately turned his back on him. “Gregory, do make yourself at home.” He left, closing the door behind him and taking a moment to settle into the persona he would have to portray.

Not that it would be difficult, for his parents would never pay that much attention. The servants, however, would. And Mummy (or Father, for that matter) were not above bribing the hired help for information on the boys. He reached the entrance just as the door opened. In strode his mother and father, sour expressions on their faces. Mummy, he noted, was tipsy, not yet completely intoxicated. Father was craving his next hit, fingers twitching spasmodically as he scratched at the crook of his elbow. Careful to keep the disgust off of his face, he walked over, kissing his mother on both cheeks. “Mummy, Father.” His smile was polite, no trace of the discomfort he felt showing in his expression.

“Mycroft.” His Mum returned the kisses, a slight smile on her face. His father merely nodded, striding off into the dining hall. “Shall we?” Obediently Mycroft extended his arm to his mother and she clutched it, wobbling the tiniest amount as they walked carefully into the dining hall. His father had already sat down and was glaring at the table.

As Mycroft predicted, the meal passed in awkward semi-silence. “How is University, dear?” his mother inquired, a slight hiccup breaking the sentence in half.

“Satisfactory, Mummy,” Mycroft replied, slicing off a small portion of the meat and placing it into his mouth. He chewed and then swallowed. “I am at the top of my classes.”

“Nothing less than the best for my son,” Father muttered. He was also eating but far sloppier, wine occasionally sloshing out of his glass when he replaced it on the table. Mycroft’s mouth wrinkled in distaste but not enough to be noticed by either parent.

“Of course,” Mycroft said smoothly. “It is to be expected.” His Mum smiled at him and he smiled in response, diverting the rest of his attention to finishing the meal in front of him. It passed in silence. Finally, Mycroft stood. “Mother, Father.” He inclined his head. “I apologise, but I have some preparations to make for my return to University. Shall we have breakfast again tomorrow before I depart?”

“That would be lovely,” his Mum said. His father merely grunted and Mycroft departed, every motion smooth and balanced.

It was once he left the dining hall that everything felt wrong. The air was too heavy, clinging to his skin and making him feel sweaty and disgusting. How he could he be related to those people? It was wrong, all wrong.

How he made it back to his room he did not know. He ripped off of his clothes, ignoring Greg and the fact that he had showered less than two hours prior, and plunged underneath the hot spray. It had been disconcerting before, knowing that they did not care, but it had never affected him to quite this extent. It was Greg’s influence, he was certain.

Gentle hands pulled him close, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s freckled shoulders and holding him. They stayed like that until the shower ran cool, steam rising from overly warmed skin. Mycroft stayed quiet as Greg dried him and carried him to the bedroom, laying him down on the bed. The demon kissed him, kissed down his neck, worshipping every inch of Mycroft and proving to him that he was something to be loved, to be cherished. Mycroft’s mind went blank, able to focus on nothing but the pleasure that Greg was wringing from every inch of his body.

Finally everything went white, sweet oblivion, and he melted into the bed, his eyes closed as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Greg was right there, humming something softly into Mycroft’s ear every time he opened his eyes. By the time Mycroft came back to full awareness, the sun had dipped into early afternoon. He blinked lazily, a slight smile curving his lips when Greg’s face came into his field of vision. “Hello,” he told the demon.

“Hi,” Greg murmured back, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek. “Feeling better?” Mycroft nodded.

After a few more lazy minutes in bed, they got dressed. Mycroft wore simple clothes, sharp trousers and a matching button down. Greg pulled on jeans and a cotton shirt (although Mycroft did wonder where he got the clothing, as he had seen nothing like it). They spent the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening wandering around the estate hand-in-hand, well enough away that they did not have to worry about invasions of privacy.

For supper, Greg made a picnic basket out of nowhere and they sat in the woods, eating and talking as the time slowly ticked by. It was the dining that Mycroft had asked for, at least. That they stole torrid kisses whenever they could get away with was of little consequence. Later they returned to the bed, Greg proceeding to make Mycroft come so hard that he blacked out for nearly a full minute, wracked with sobs of pleasure. He had returned the favor, worshiping Greg’s body and learning what the demon liked best.

They had fallen asleep twined so close together that Mycroft did not know where he ended and Greg began. They were two halves of a whole, one soul in two bodies. Mycroft had never given much stock to silly little myths such as soul mates, but parts of him was starting to believe it now. Waking up with sleepy, warm kisses was one of the best experiences Mycroft had ever had.

Breakfast was as sterile and predictable as Mycroft had imagined. This time, however, it was silent. Mummy had drank herself into a stupor, so he and his father sat and ate. His father didn’t even bother to make an effort, leaving as soon as he had downed the last bite. Greg had held him for a moment when he returned, then proceeded to help Mycroft with the last of his packing.

Finally, it was time to go. “Call me,” Greg ordered gently, kissing Mycroft and then playfully nipping at his lower lip. Mycroft shivered and growled, playfully nipping back as they continued to kiss. He felt Greg smile against his lips, felt the kiss deepen and become heated. “I will see you soon, love.”

“I will,” Mycroft promised. He stopped, uncertain. Greg must have read something in his eyes, for the demon stepped forward and pressed another, this time brief, kiss to his lips.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “Words will come later.”

Gratefully Mycroft squeezed his hand. He felt like his heart was ripping in half, like part of it was being stored behind at the estate, held carefully in the hands of the demon. “You may use my suite, if you would like, while I’m gone,” he told Greg, taking a half-step towards the car waiting for him. Greg nodded and smiled. “Farewell, Gregory.”

With that, Mycroft forced himself to turn around and slip into the waiting car. As soon as the door was shut he shifted to face the spot he had left, watching Greg through the window until he was too far away.

Greg watched the car leave, something heavy sinking in his chest as he realized what the reality of his life would be like for the next couple months. It was less than six months before Mycroft would return, he reminded himself. He had waited centuries. He could stand six more months. He, too, turned around, leaving the foyer and walking down the hall. Absently he noticed that Sherlock’s bedroom was cracked open.

Suspicious, he walked over, checking cautiously for any sort of trap. As soon as he looked inside all caution flew out the window and he ran in.

The teenager was sprawled on the bed, pale as a ghost and barely breathing. There was a depressed syringe tossed haphazardly on the bed next to him, like it had been disposed of in a hurry. It was Mycroft’s greatest nightmare, come to life. Greg had not even been able to protect the teenager for the five minutes Mycroft had been gone. Checking Sherlock’s pulse, Greg was satisfied at the strength. It wasn’t normal, was far too fast, but it was not to the point that Greg would have summoned medical attention.

Grabbing a chair, Greg settled in for the long haul. He wasn’t going to leave Sherlock alone to face this by himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aggghhhh I'm so sorry this took so long for me to update. Next update in two weeks!
> 
> As usual, you can stalk me at [my tumblr](http://iolre.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Hopefully only two or three more chapters, but we'll see!

Mycroft groaned as he sank into the armchair by his bed. The apartment that he had been given for his last year of University was quite luxurious, and he had taken the liberty of making it as comfortable as possible. He had been back at University for nearly two weeks and had heard nothing from Gregory during that time. Nor had he heard from Sherlock or anyone at the estate, which was worrying in its own way. Although he did not hear from Sherlock often, he was contacted almost weekly by the servants or other local officials when Sherlock’s behavior got out of hand.

“And you don’t even notice little old me sitting here in the corner.” Greg’s voice was mock-despondent, and Mycroft could not help but smile as his heart swelled at the familiar tones of the demon’s voice.

“Gregory!” Mycroft said, trying not to allow his voice to show just how tired he was. “I do sincerely apologise, it has been quite a long day.”

“Week, I’d say, by the look of you,” Greg responded, looking over his partner. “C’mere. We need to talk.”

“While I have little experience with this in actuality, in any romance novel I have seen, such phrasing rarely leads to something good.” Regardless Mycroft stood, grimacing at the pain in his back before walking over and moving onto the bed. Greg scooted down and lifted an arm, smiling slightly as Mycroft ducked underneath it and settled against him. Mycroft shifted so that he was half on top of Greg, a leg slotting between his partner’s, face in the crook of Greg’s neck. Greg wrapped an arm possessively about Mycroft’s body, and the politician felt the tension start to seep from his body. Mycroft nudged his nose closer to the soft, steady throb of Greg’s pulse, inhaling deeply. “How did you get here?” he asked, distracted.

“Shadow travel,” Greg answered, a hand smoothing Mycroft’s hair back from his face, reassuring in its presence. “I’m sorry I took so long. I was - otherwise occupied.”

“What has happened, Gregory?” Mycroft truly dreaded the answer, and he had a feeling that it involved Sherlock. Nearly everything that went wrong in his life involved his family in some way. “Did Sherlock burn the mansion down?”

“He overdosed,” Greg said bluntly, arm tightening around his partner as Mycroft tensed. Greg’s free hand ran gentle lines up and down Mycroft’s back, soothing. “The night you left. I found him in his room. Not fatal, he didn’t need any resuscitation, but he was out of it for a long time.”

“Oh god,” Mycroft breathed, his eyes wide and his body so stiff it was physically painful. “Oh god.”

“I don’t think God can do much, love,” Greg said softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his partner’s forehead. “Breathe for me, Mycroft. In and out.” He murmured quiet, reassuring instructions to the man in his arms until he felt the tension ebb from Mycroft’s frame and the politician-to-be became a comfortable, pliant pressure curled against him. “I don’t have much time. Sherlock was asleep when I left, and I want to be there when he wakes up.”

“Have you been - monitoring him?” Mycroft inquired, fighting to keep his voice steady.

“Yes,” Greg said with a firm nod. “I haven’t left his side. He wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea. Went through a cupboard of china when we had that argument.” Greg shook his head, admiration clear in his expression. Mycroft couldn’t help the slight smile at the thought.

He fell quiet, instead, nearly hypnotised by Greg’s breathing, warm and steady. Sherlock - drugs - god, it was Mycroft’s fault somehow, wasn’t it? Sherlock needed more attention, needed Mycroft to be there, and instead, Mycroft had abandoned him for Uni. It was an idea that seemed stupider the more Mycroft thought about it. “Stop,” Greg murmured, his breath feeling warm against Mycroft’s skin. “I can hear you thinking from here.”

Something rose in Mycroft’s throat, something that threatened to choke him. “It’s my fault,” he said haltingly, hating himself even more as he said the words. “I should have protected him, Gregory. It was my duty as his older brother, to guard him from everything bad. Sherlock - Sherlock is so special, so unique. I should have done better. If I had, maybe he would not have…”

“Sherlock made his own decision,” Greg murmured against his temple, pressing soft, gentle kisses to the skin. “He chose to take the drugs.”

“Will he consent to rehab?” Mycroft asked raggedly, curling closer to his partner. He was not completely sure of his absolution, but for now was going to deny himself any sort of comfort Greg was willing to offer. That was something that could be accomplished later, when Gregory was not present.

“Yes,” Greg said. “I think I’ve found him a bed.”

At this Mycroft drew himself up, his eyes narrowed and accusing. Greg sighed at the expression, and something tightened in Mycroft’s chest, something painful and raw. “Look, I should probably tell you something.”

“From the sounds of it, it is probably not something I shall be particularly enthusiastic about,” Mycroft said slowly, a hand resting on Greg’s abdomen. The demon was laying on the bed still, looking up at his partner. There was a warmth in his eyes that unnerved Mycroft, made butterflies swarm in his stomach.

Greg pulled away from Mycroft’s hand and sat up, his arms crossed in his lap. He seemed to be looking for something in the pit of his elbow, tilting it this way and that and tugging at the skin until something shifted. Mycroft was started to realize he could see the faint remnants of track marks dotting the demon’s skin. “What - what are those?” he stammered, looking between the marks and Greg with wide, surprised eyes.

“I used drugs for a long time,” Greg said. His eyes were distant, slightly glossed over, and he did not look at Mycroft as he spoke. “That’s how I coped, with what happened in hell. I didn’t care. I didn’t retaliate, didn’t fight.” His fingers tightened on his arms and then relaxed, and the skin returned to normal. “When I was banished up here, it was ludicrously easy to continue a supply, although I had to settle for human drugs.” Greg shook his head. “They wiped things out, made everything easy to bear.”

A faint chuckle escaped his lips. “Then I saw Edmund out walking with a cute little ginger tot. Maybe two years old.” Mycroft stared, disbelieving. “He was the cutest little thing. So bright and enthusiastic and excited about everything.” Greg smiled, his head tilting to the side. “He nearly saw me. A close call. I had watched your father for a while, see, but I had never seen the little one.” He paused, fingers twining together in his lap. “I came back the next day and saw him again. Everything seemed so much clearer when I could see him. Like the world had gone from a muddy, burnt orange to something brighter and warm.” A choked sob came from his throat and he covered his face with his hands. Mycroft stared, his mind blank, crashing. Greg couldn’t - wouldn’t - he fought to compose a coherent sentence.

“So I watched and I waited.” Greg’s voice was strangled, and he fought to keep it steady. Mycroft gave up attempting to say anything, much less think. Nothing was working in his brain. “I watched his father devolve into the same drugs I had given up. I watched his mother drink herself into a stupor when she had her second baby, the loud, cantankerous one.” Greg’s hands found their way back to his lap, and his head was bowed by the weight of his words. “I helped, when I could. Drugs went missing. Alcohol disappeared. I tried to make sure that even if they didn’t remember your birthday, or Christmas, or any other event, that at least they could not spend it too intoxicated. I didn’t always succeed, but there was only so much I could do without getting caught.”

“I saw you once.” Mycroft found his voice without realising, a memory coming unbidden to his mind. “Christmas. I was twelve.”

It was faint, but Mycroft saw a smile curve the edge of Greg’s lips. “Yes, you did. I didn’t intend to get caught, but - well, I was heading something else off.”

The room fell silent, and Mycroft stared at his partner, trying to find something to say that would express what he was feeling. It would have been easier if he knew precisely what he was feeling in the first place. Shock, probably. He was surprised and the slightest bit pleased and worried and he just didn’t know what to do with himself. “I don’t know what to say,” was what he settled on after three minutes had passed. He didn’t want Greg to think that he was irritated or upset. He just wasn’t good at putting emotions into words. The blasted things were so difficult to identify in the first place - what choice did he have?

“There was a reason behind why I told you this,” Greg admitted, lifting his head to look at Mycroft. “I want to send Sherlock to rehab. It’s probably not going to do anything. He’ll probably come back home and go straight back to the needle. He has to want it, Mycroft. He has to have a reason to get off of drugs.”

“Wasn’t this his first time?” Mycroft got out, blinking madly. Wasn’t it? If Sherlock was doing it before, surely Mycroft would have noticed.

“No,” Greg said quietly after a few moments. “It’s been at least a year.”

“How do you know?” Mycroft challenged. Immediately he felt ridiculous, and he cringed at his own behavior.

“I found the track marks. I also found his supply - or what little he had, anyway,” Greg responded evenly.

“Why is he trusting you with this?” Mycroft couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit hurt. If his brother was going to trust anyone, shouldn’t it be him? Why Greg?

“I showed him my track marks,” Greg said with a shrug. “We had a bit of a talk, he and I. Took a few plates and three saucers, but we got it all straightened out.” His earlier disquiet seemed to have disappeared, but Mycroft watched apprehensively as he glanced at the clock. “C’mere, love. I have to go soon if I want him to wake up with me there. He leaves tomorrow and I don’t want to disrupt his routine until then.”

Mycroft waited for Greg to lay down before he shifted to curl next to him, trying to get as close as he physically could without delving into the other man’s skin. “I don’t want you to leave,” he admitted. “But I know you have to.”

Greg leaned down to press a kiss to Mycroft’s head. Mycroft was slightly taller than the demon, but he liked laying against Greg’s sturdy chest, held by the strong arm crossed over his lower back. It was safe and secure, and he felt like no one could reach him. He knew it was a childish emotion, especially for someone like him, who twenty, but he could not help it. “Could you…” Mycroft trailed off, apologetic. He didn’t want to confess that he had been having nightmares the past three nights. It had made Greg’s arrival all the more welcome. It had also made the bad news he bore all the more vivid. “Could you help me sleep?”

“Of course.” Greg gave him a warm smile and carefully rolled Mycroft so that he was on his side, pressed firmly against Greg’s chest. His lips were on Mycroft’s neck, warm and insistent. “I love you, Mycroft Holmes,” he murmured. “I have for a long time. I will be back tomorrow, and I can stay longer. Now sleep.” The caresses on his neck started feather-soft and then lingered, and Mycroft felt his eyelids droop as Greg held him. Then he was asleep and nothing mattered.

-

Mycroft woke up in his bed alone. It was an odd feeling, one he was used to. The few nights he had had with Gregory had left him rather accustomed to sleeping with a partner, but the past two weeks had cured him of that. And then Greg had soothed him to sleep last night, and it had awoken a longing in him. He groaned when he noticed that his cock, too, had realized what it had been missing. “Go away,” he told his anatomy, rolling over onto his stomach and covering his head with a pillow.

The events of the last day came flooding back and he cringed. Sherlock - Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock. He had tried to fall down into a pile of guilt but had been stopped by his partner. Then Greg had confessed - had told Mycroft that he had used drugs, and that the only reason he had stopped was because of Mycroft. Even as a child Greg had found something interesting about him, something compelling enough that he no longer felt the need to dull his pain through pharmaceuticals.

Although he doubted Greg had intended it, it made him ache inside. He had been enough for Greg, that was true. Neither of his parents, however, had such an incentive. If Mycroft was going to be honest with himself, he doubted that there was any way he could give his parents what they needed to stop - if there was anything that could be given, in any case. If there had been a way to stop the shouting, the throwing - frankly, the abuse that both Holmes brothers had suffered throughout their lifetime, Mycroft would sacrifice whatever he had to in an instant. Anything for at least Sherlock to forget what happened.

There was a knock on the door and Mycroft’s attention snapped back to where he was and what he should be doing. He glanced at the clock with a frown. “I will be to class momentarily,” he said smoothly to the person on the other side of the door. “Something more important called my attention.” The soft rap on the door indicated the servant’s understanding and Mycroft darted into the shower, moving as quickly and efficiently as he could before he dressed in one of his normal suits. Although he was at University, the particular class he had was one in which he had to dress the part he would have in the future.

It was barely twenty minutes later when he strode into the small classroom that served them as a meeting hall. Nontraditional as his last year of classes was, it was primarily him and a small group of international students who were headed into minor positions of minor branches of their respective governments. “You’re late,” his instructor snapped.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed the slightest amount and he tilted his head to the side, careful to look dismissively down his nose. “Unfortunately for you, Professor, I had some more - delicate business to attend to.” His voice was carefully modulated, a hint of apology lightening the threat enough that the professor knew not to push. “Were we still discussing the American handling of the issue in Afghanistan?”

“Yes,” the professor said, the faint colour high on his cheeks the only sign of his rage. Mycroft knew he had won. He smiled disarmingly, sinking into the chair as the other students watched. While his classes were small, Mycroft was always the best in his class. He had the skills, the poise, the knowledge - even the vocabulary. Half of his professors were afraid of him and the other half could match his wits in their respective areas. All of them knew of his family name and were afraid to anger him for fear of retribution. Mycroft knew that his parents would never bother with such a thing, but the professors didn’t.

The rest of the class proceeded normally, and Mycroft left without as much of a backward glance at any of his classmates or his professor. Most of the time he would stay, initiate the proper small talk - build the connections he would need for later in his career. For now, however, he just wanted to get as far away from everything as possible. Regrettably it wasn’t quite as possible as he would have liked, for he had three more classes that evening and a meeting with the man who was his supervisor. The same man would continue working with him when Mycroft assumed his first government position at the end of the year.

He fixed his normal mask on his face and made it through the rest of the day, doing what he had to do to make it through the rest of his engagements. His mask was allowed to slip slightly when talking to his supervisor. While the man wasn’t as smart as Mycroft, he had learned more about the politician to be during his training and could read him like an open book. There wasn’t much Mycroft could hide from him.

“Tired, boy?” he said, lifting an eyebrow. Mycroft was careful to steel his face against his supervisor’s dismissive tone. It had bothered him at first, but he no longer reacted.

“Yes, sir,” Mycroft admitted, sitting properly in the arm chair. His supervisor had always been fair to him, and had even on a rare occasion inquired as to how Mycroft’s brother was doing. It was rare that supervisors took such a dedicated interest in their tutee’s personal lives, but Mycroft was not going to say no. Worst case he fabricated. One did not refuse one’s superior anything unless there was no risk of retribution, and that was not the case.

They sat there silently, Mycroft’s eyebrows knitted together as he attempted to puzzle out what had his supervisor looking so pensive. “We have spent quite some time discussing your future obligations, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Mycroft agreed, nodding his head slightly. Several of their monthly meetings had been spent discussing Mycroft’s career trajectory.

“That you can be gone for long periods of time, unable to have outside contact? That you might have to fight out of uncomfortable situations for the first few years? The danger? The security level needed?” If Mycroft had been anyone else he would have said that his supervisor sounded challenging, as if he was daring Mycroft to prove something. There was something underneath the tone that Mycroft wasn’t certain about. He wasn’t going to push without more information, however.

“Indeed, sir. We have.”

“How does your partner feel about that?”

Mycroft could have sworn that all the blood drained from his body and pooled on the floor, leaving him drained and a zombie (or possibly a vampire? He would have to check with Greg). “Ex - excuse me, sir?” he managed.

“Your partner.” There was a faint gleam in his supervisor’s eye, mischievous in its origin. Mycroft would have to do some digging later to figure out exactly how his supervisor had gotten his hands on the information that no one else had.

“I am afraid I do not know about that of which you speak,” he responded politely.

“You can’t lie to me, boy,” his supervisor said fondly. “You have someone special in your life now. Having that someone will influence you in the future, and I want to know you have a plan in place to handle such things. What if he gets injured?”

Mycroft couldn’t help the flash of red across his face, and he fought to regain his composure. He. His supervisor had said ‘he’. Somehow he not only knew that Mycroft had entered a relationship, but that he was gay on top of it. A distant part of him wanted the ground to open up and swallow him. The more logical part took control, however, and he squared his shoulders and forced himself to assume a nonchalant pose. “He is quite aware of the demands upon my time, both now and in the future,” he said smoothly. “He is also aware that certain demands take precedence over others.”

“And he’s fine with that? The fact that if something happens, and he’s hurt, maybe on the brink of death, you might have to leave to do your duty?” His supervisor leaned forward, eyes intent, challenging.

Mycroft did not even have to think. “Yes.” It was then that he made up his mind. He was going to climb to the top of the ladder, where no one could ever challenge him. That way if he needed time off, if Gregory was injured - he could be there, and no one could say a thing about it.

“Good.” His supervisor sat back in his chair, seeming oddly satisfied over something that Mycroft could still not figure out.

The rest of the meeting was normal, his supervisor positing various scenarios and Mycroft handling them in his manner, tossing solutions back as quickly as he was handed the problems. His supervisor smiled slightly and dismissed him with orders to come back in another month. Mycroft had nodded and left. For now he would bow and scrape, would bide his time until he was the one at the top and had to submit to no one.

He walked straight back to his flat and went to the cabinet that held his finest whiskey. Pouring himself a shot, he sat the bottle back on the counter before tossing the shot down his throat. It burned as it went, leaving behind a warm, glowing feeling that was assisted by another shot or two. Or three or four. He lost count. Finally he closed the bottle and put it back in the cabinet, frowning at the way his hands shook as he did so. He was properly drunk, then, or at least on his way to being so.

“Bad day?” Greg said quietly from his perch on Mycroft’s bed.

This time Mycroft didn’t startle. Instead he merely walked over to his bed and flopped down upon it. “Indeed.” His vision was slightly blurry, the world pleasantly fuzzy about the edges. The alcohol was slowly seeping into his system, leaving him loose-limbed and warm. It was then that he realized he had eaten nothing that day and had consumed a large amount of alcohol on an empty stomach. Despite that he blinked lazily at the ceiling, wondering why he didn’t get up and drink some more. Turning so that he could see the bottle on the table, he frowned. Somehow the bottle had grown legs and vanished. Mycroft was fairly certain that bottles weren’t supposed to do that. Although, really, most things weren’t supposed to grow legs. Maybe vanish. Were there things that vanished? He wasn’t quite sure.

“No more,” Greg murmured, watching him carefully. Mycroft looked at him.

“Did you make the bottle vanish?” he asked suspiciously. He was most definitely drunk. Maybe just a bit. There was a reason he didn’t get drunk, after all. Most of the time. Maybe sometimes it was okay. Definitely after a day like today it was fine. But then he got a bit silly, and sometimes Sherlock had to lock him in his room, and - oh dear, Greg moved closer and his chest muscles shifted and Mycroft couldn’t help but stare openly.

It had to be illegal to be that sexy, some small part of his brain decided. Totally, completely - oh, Greg was within reaching distance. Distractedly Mycroft reached up and tugged Greg’s head closer before capturing Greg’s lips in a rather sloppy kiss. Greg kissed back, gentle and warm, and Mycroft scooted closer until he was laying on top of the demon. It was a few moments later when Greg pulled back, leaving Mycroft scowling. “You’re drunk.”

“No,” Mycroft disagreed pleasantly, a wide smile on his face.

“Mycroft, either you’re drunk, or you’ve been beamed up by an alien and replaced.”

Mycroft didn’t like the idea as much and he scowled. “I’m fine,” he said shortly, his earlier good mood evaporating. He tugged insistently on Greg’s shirt.

“No,” Greg said firmly. There was something on his face that Mycroft didn’t like, that made his stomach lurch unpleasantly. God, he really was drunk. His stomach roiled at the thought. Fuck. “Do you do this often?”

“Shouldn’t you know that?” Mycroft snapped miserably, grabbing a pillow and stuffing it over his face as he ended up on his back. The pillow, blessed be it, muted the lights boring into his face and hid his shame from his partner. The world was still fuzzy, and everything felt brilliant, but the hot embarrassment was starting to permeate the thick haze of the alcohol. It was not something Mycroft had anticipated, and it was making him angry.

“You’re just looking for a reaction now,” Greg murmured, quiet and soothing. He shifted so that when he lifted Mycroft’s head slightly, he dropped it into his lap before Mycroft could snap a protest. The pillow was carefully placed back on Mycroft’s face, although Greg angled it down so that he could get his fingers to some of the tender pressure points on Mycroft’s forehead and scalp.

Mycroft blinked blearily at the pillow, his mind riding somewhere in the clouds. “Feels good,” he told the pillow, only vaguely aware that his words were muffled. Greg’s fingers were warm and gentle in their ministrations, relieving some of the pressure that felt like it had been building up in Mycroft’s head all day. He was aware of a headache lurking in the back of his brain. It was going to hurt to wake up tomorrow.

A soft press of lips to his forehead made him frown until he connected the dots and realized it had been Greg. It took an unacceptable amount of time to connect the dots, and Mycroft resolved to have a conversation with his brain minions about it next time - brain minions. Oh dear, he really was drunk to be thinking about brain minions. Not that it really mattered. “Talk to me.” Greg’s soft tone floated into Mycroft’s mind, distracting him.

Part of Mycroft wondered if he was hallucinating or if Greg was actually still there and not some kind of weird, alcohol-induced illusion. Illusion or not, he figured it wouldn’t hurt to talk to him. “Somehow my supervisor learned that I am not only gay, but recently entered a relationship of sorts, and proceeded to quiz me about it.” His eyes unfocused, the alcohol combining with the distance in his mind to create a pleasant sort of buzz. “I was late for class. My professors are afraid of me. Afraid of my influence.” He snorted dismissively. “As if my parents would lift a finger for me in any way, shape, or form.”

Gentle fingers trailed across his temple, soothing in their warmth. The fingers trailed down to his shoulders, massaging carefully, undoing tense muscles that Mycroft did not know existed. His breathing steadied, the fuzziness seeping into the last tendrils of his consciousness and leaving him half-asleep on the bed. “You’re going to sleep,” came the gentle words in his ear, floating through his mind like they were on clouds. “You’re going to sleep, and wake up in the morning, and feel refreshed.”

Mycroft hummed his agreement, although a hint of a frown flashed across his face when he felt Greg’s lap disappear, only to be replaced by a pillow. It was not the same, wasn’t the same warmth he wanted against him, curled up with him. He made a quiet, needy noise, curling on his side and unconsciously pulling the pillow closer. Being drunk always made him sleepy, and it was hitting him hard, assisted by Greg’s ability to put Mycroft to sleep.

It was not long before he tipped over the edge, falling with Greg right next to him, a warm hand on his head, grounding him.

-

His head was pounding when he woke up. As he groaned his eyes fluttered open and he whimpered as the lights pounded stakes into his skull. It had been a while since he drank, and he was regretting it sincerely. Greg was gone - not that the logical part of Mycroft was surprised. It was the daytime, and Greg had mentioned in the past that he could only travel at night. Maybe if he was lucky Greg would be there later.

A buzzing noise from his nightstand made Mycroft cringe, although he did grab the phone and open it, squinting at the display. ‘Water and paracetamol on the table. GL’ A surprised huff found its way from Mycroft’s lips and he turned so that he could see the medication and the water resting on the table that the text had indicated. He sent back a thank you before forcing himself out of the bed.

He staggered over to the table, popping the pills in his mouth before downing the glass of water. The medication took effect surprisingly quickly, and he stumbled into the bathroom, turning on the shower and throwing off his wrinkled clothes. He had not even changed into pyjamas; he had slept in his suit. The memory of the previous night hit him like a brick. It took all of his willpower to prevent his knees from buckling, even as he stepped underneath the hot water.

Mycroft had gotten drunk. In front of Gregory. He had even made a fool out of himself, muttering about this and that. He did not remember much more than that; his memory was always hazy when he drank too much. Not that he had a problem, of course. He drank in moderation, and only occasionally. Sometimes occasions simply demanded it. He would think up a defense for the well-stocked liquor cabinet he kept well hidden in his closet later, when his head wasn’t pounding so insistently.

It was not long before he was dressed and headed to go about his day. He fought constantly against the throbbing in his head, keeping his voice level and unconcerned as he bantered with the various connections he maintained. Mycroft was careful to make up for his indiscretions yesterday, soothing over the relationships he would have to keep building for the sake of his country. He was somewhat thankful, however, to avoid another meeting with his supervisor. That would not be for another month.

He didn’t see Greg that night, nor the next several nights after that. Each morning he got a simple ‘good morning’ text. No matter how many texts he sent back (and he truly did abhor texting), he got nothing different in response. It made him fidgety, worried him that he was doing something wrong and that Greg now found him useless.

All of that was assuaged when he arrived home a week later to find a very tired-looking Greg half-asleep in his bed. “You’re here,” he said, standing in the doorway. Realizing that anyone walking by could see his partner, he closed the door behind him and took a few steps into the room.

A wan smile crossed the demon’s face. “Yeah,” he answered. Mycroft flushed and looked away, shame rising to the surface. He wasn’t even certain why he was embarrassed, he just was. His gaze on the floor, he did not realize that Greg had moved until he felt fingers on his chin, tilting his face up so that he was looking into dark eyes. Something flashed over Greg’s face, dark and raw, before the demon leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft responded enthusiastically, winding his arms about his partner and kissing him.

There was something in him that craved Greg’s touch, that needed his warm body flush against him. It was like all of his problems fell away, like nothing mattered when Greg was there with him. It seemed like no time passed before Greg’s body was warm and naked against his. He did not remember taking off his clothes, didn’t remember his three-piece suit being removed and folded neatly in a corner. He really didn’t care.

He cried out when Greg swallowed him, tormenting him with his talented tongue. It was pleasure like Mycroft had not known, wringing soft moans and gasps from him as Greg continued working him with his mouth. Mycroft writhed about on the bed, fingers clenched in the duvet. He stiffened, feeling his cock pulse as his mind blanked and he came down Greg’s throat, sobbing the demon’s name as he found his release.

Dazed, Mycroft found he could do little when he felt Greg’s erection against his hip. He blinked blearily at his partner, and then realized he should do something. His hand joined Greg’s on his cock, long, steady pulls that made Greg’s breath hitch in his throat as he gasped Mycroft’s name. Moments later his seed was spurting over their hands. Mycroft frowned at it, intrigued and mildly repulsed. Part of him wanted to taste it, and part of him was horrified by the idea. Setting the idea aside for later, his attention was drawn by Greg who had clasped his hand and was cleaning both the hand and the rest of Mycroft off with a warm wash cloth.

When had Greg gotten it? Mycroft had no idea. Once they were cleaned up, Greg shifted Mycroft onto his side and held him in his arms, tucking the taller, auburn-haired man against his chest, hands trailing lazily up and down his back. It had been exactly what Mycroft needed. He felt settled, like his mind had rebooted and was willing to tackle life’s problems again. It was not what he had known he needed, but he had.

“I thought you had left me,” Mycroft admitted to Greg’s neck.

“Never,” Greg responded, his arms tightening around Mycroft for the briefest moment. “Why did you think that?”

“I lost control.” Mycroft’s eyes fluttered closed, and he shifted closer, pressing his face into the warmth of Greg’s neck. “I don’t - I don’t drink often. Sometimes. Sometimes I do have a problem. But I don’t - I can’t…”

“It’s a coping mechanism, love.” Greg pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s temple. “We all have them. Some more healthy than others.” Mycroft didn’t know what to say to that, so he stayed quiet. It wasn’t a good enough excuse. He should have known better. He should not have been so weak. “I can guess what you’re thinking,” Greg said with a hint of a chuckle in his voice. “You should have been stronger. Shouldn’t have had a drink. And so on and so forth.”

Mycroft frowned his denial, and Greg shifted slightly so that Mycroft was sprawled over half of him, a leg slotting neatly between Greg’s. “Possibly.”

“You didn’t turn to the bottle after I left,” Greg continued. “You thought about it. You were tempted. But you didn’t.” Mycroft saw the smile that quickly crossed Greg’s face. “You know what that makes you, love? It makes you strong.” He shifted a hand into Mycroft’s hair now, feeling the strands underneath his rough fingers. Mycroft couldn’t help but lean into the touch. It was oddly soothing. “Even now, you’re here with me. You’re not shouting, or crying, or drinking.”

“Look, you didn’t grow up in the best home. You had problems. Everyone does. What you did is oddly, reassuringly normal. You wanted to cope with it. So you did. We all do that. Everyone reacts to bad things, Mycroft.” Greg’s voice was ragged, as if he was talking about more than Mycroft when he said things like that.

“How is Sherlock?” Mycroft asked quietly, nearly dreading the answer. He had heard nothing from his brother all week. It was quite likely that electronic communication was forbidden during the first week of a program. But Greg had his resources.

“He’s - actually doing surprisingly well. Alienated half of the staff already. Still, he hasn’t gotten thrown out. So we should consider that progress.” The smile Greg gave Mycroft was genuine, and Mycroft felt his muscles loosening just at the sight of it. “He’s made a friend, I think. John is his name. Teen with an alcohol problem or something. Seems like a good kid.”

“Sherlock. Made a friend.” Mycroft couldn’t hide his disbelief. “Someone is willingly spending time with my brother?”

“Yeah. Sherlock probably wouldn’t phrase it that way - definitely wouldn’t, really. He’d be more likely to say that he’s being forced to spend time with the lackey or something. But they hit it off and the teen’s practically infatuated with him.” Greg grinned.

“Someone is voluntarily spending time with Sherlock.” Mycroft could barely stand that he was repeating himself, much less parroting back phrases, but it was something that was difficult to comprehend.

“Yes,” Greg answered. “Provided he does not escape and make his way home, he should be back right before Christmas. Right before you come home.”

“If you can put the thought in his mind, do encourage him to invite this John to the manor for Christmas. I would like to meet him.”

“If you think that’s a good idea, love.”

“It’s not, but I must do what I have to do.”

Greg smiled and pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s forehead. Both men were sated and sleepy, and Mycroft drifted, half-asleep in Greg’s arms. Before he knew it, his breathing evened out and he was asleep.

The next several weeks passed quickly. Greg’s visits were more frequent near the new moon, and less towards the full. Sometimes Mycroft would go days without seeing his partner. Some weeks he saw him every night. He never took the visits for granted and stayed awake as long as he could to prolong Greg’s stay. Sometimes they talked about Mycroft’s classes, about what he was learning. Sometimes they talked about Greg, about his life before Mycroft came into the picture. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all, and their time together was spent snogging lazily on the bed or doing something far more lewd.

Before he knew it it was time to go home for Christmas. It was his last trip home, and not one he was particularly enthusiastic about. But he had promised Greg that he would be there, and he wanted to say goodbye to Sherlock. He was checking with his supervisors, seeing if there was any way that he could potentially squeeze a room in for Sherlock in his new accommodations once he left Uni. He was hopeful, although not particularly optimistic.

The train ride was short and uninteresting, the chauffeured ride back to the estate equally dull. The entire time his leg bounced, betraying his eagerness to return. Gregory was there, waiting for him. That was what mattered. At the end of the break, Greg was going to come back with him and live with him and that would be that. There was more than enough room for Greg in his Uni apartment.

Mycroft emerged from the car and spotted the dark-haired head in the window of his room, watching. With a smile on his face, he headed into the estate.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shhh I'm busy muttering darkly about how this has insisted on growing longer than I originally planned.
> 
> Sorry for the short-ish-ness of this chapter, but I'm just glad it's finally done.
> 
> You can follow me on [my tumblr](http://iolre.tumblr.com) to figure out what I'm doing and when. Best way to know when updates are coming.
> 
> Annnd...fa, la, la, it's off to hell we go~

Mycroft entered the estate, taking his time to glance around and ensure it was quiet. And it was. Oddly so. Sherlock must not have been out of rehab quite yet. The servants had piled his small pile of luggage outside of his room, and he ignored it, choosing instead to enter. He hadn't seen Gregory in a few days, and he missed him dearly. There was just one problem. Greg wasn't alone.

"Who are you?" Mycroft inquired politely, looking at the man lounging against the wall. He was slightly shorter than Greg, with lighter chestnut hair and black eyes. His features were similar to Greg's, but sharper, like a hawk. The man was all angles and sharp, jerky motions, even as he went and ran his hand through his hair. His nails, Mycroft noted with apprehension, were sharp and pointed. Dagger-like.

Greg glanced up and smiled at Mycroft. It wasn't the smile Mycroft liked best - it wasn't warm, and carefree. It was torn and strained and everything Mycroft didn't like. "This is Dimmock," Greg said. "He was a mate of mine in Hell."

"Hello," Mycroft said pleasantly, although his voice was anything but. "Gregory, are you okay?"

"Yeah," he answered after a few moments. "Look. We have to talk."

Mycroft wanted to cringe, wanted to wince. Talks were never pleasant, particularly when the other party did not look thrilled to have one. "Shall we do it here, or is there a more desirable location?"

It was like Greg could feel the guards go up, could feel Mycroft close off from him, for his expression shifted and became more haggard. "Dimmo, give us a sec, yeah?" The other demon smirked and then nodded. Then he disappeared. Mycroft didn't even blink, used to such things with his partner.

"Sherlock comes home tomorrow," Greg told him before perching on the bed, sitting cross-legged. He beckoned Mycroft over, and smiled slightly as the auburn-haired man settled next to him, careful to not crinkle his suit. "How are you feeling, love?"

"Rather confused," Mycroft answered, attempting to control the tremor of his voice. He had meant to sound displeased, but instead sounded petulant.

"Dimmock's going to stay with you for a day or two," Greg started, slipping a hand into Mycroft’s and caressing his palm with a thumb. "I have - there are some things I need to do in hell, and I can't leave you alone right now." Mycroft lifted an eyebrow, a slight frown on his face.

"What do you mean you can't leave me alone? What do you have to do in hell?" He was careful to modulate his tone, careful to not show the fear and resentment that was growing inside of him. It wasn't fair that Greg had to go. Mycroft was more important, as selfish as that was.

"There are some things going on in Hell right now that have to do with my falling-out," Greg said slowly. "And because of that, I have to go back there. It'll be the last time. It shouldn't take more than a day or two."

"Am I in danger?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes," Greg answered without preamble. "You are. That's why Dimmo's here."

Mycroft thought this over. There were a lot of factors he didn't understand, and some he suspected that he never would. As much as he disliked the idea, he couldn't necessarily expect Greg to tell him everything. Could he? There were so many tenuous expectations in a new relationship. Was nearly four solid months new? It was disappointing that there was not a manual produced that would explain such things. No wonder Mycroft had never bothered with them before now. Messy and complex and oh so frustrating.

"Dimmo, no doubt, will tell you some parts of the story." Greg's voice broke into his thoughts, and Mycroft looked up in time to kiss Greg back when the demon placed a soft kiss on his lips. "Once everything is resolved, I'll tell you the rest myself."

"Will you be back in time for Sherlock to get here?" Mycroft inquired mildly. He placed his faith in the demon - he didn't really have a choice. Greg trusted him, had demonstrated that in the past. Mycroft needed to extend the same trust to him, no matter how hard it was.

"Hopefully," Greg said with a grimace. He leaned forward and pressed another kiss to Mycroft's lips, lingering this time. Mycroft wrapped a hand about his head, threading it into his hair and kissing back.

They broke apart when there was a soft cough from the other side of the room. Greg was smirking and Mycroft was blushing, the pink running down his ears and onto his cheek and neck. It was times like that that he disliked his pale skin. It was hard to expect anything else in the weather where he lived, however. "Got a nice view, Dimmo?" Greg asked conversationally.

"Ugh," the demon groaned in response. "Get a room."

"Get out of my room, then," Mycroft muttered. Greg snorted a laugh. Mycroft looked up in time to see the smile disappear off of his face as he turned to his friend.

“You know what to do,” he told Dimmock seriously. There was nothing pleasant about that face, nothing warm or jovial. It was nothing Mycroft had ever associated with his partner, and he couldn’t deny the faint shiver that ran down his spine.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dimmock said dismissively, a hand lazily waved in Greg’s direction. “Have at it. Come back safe.”

Greg crushed Mycroft suddenly in one last hug, placed a kiss on his lips, and then was gone.

Mycroft scowled down at the duvet. It wasn’t exactly the homecoming he had been looking forward to. Not that he had dreamed about it or anything. Repeatedly. With lots of sex involved. Nope, nothing of the sort. Instead he was abandoned with someone he had no idea who was while Greg gallivanted off to do something that sounded dangerous.

He forced himself to look at the demon with a smile plastered on his face. “Tea?” Mycroft inquired politely. Dimmock shook his head and stifled a yawn.

“Got a chair?” he asked absently.

“Feel free to use whichever you prefer,” Mycroft said pleasantly, a sweeping hand gesturing to the desk chair and armchair in the corner.

“So you’re Mycroft, eh?” Dimmock looked over at him, dark eyes strangely stark against his tanned skin. The contrast shouldn’t be so vivid, but it was.

“Yes.” Mycroft smile politely. It was awkward, sitting on his bed in the uncomfortable silence. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, where to look, anything. Dimmock wasn't Greg - he was what Mycroft imagined a full-blooded demon would look like. The features were sharper, jagged. Like he could cut his way into Mycroft's soul.

Mycroft decided to ignore the demon altogether, getting up and selecting a book from his carefully arranged shelves. His last semester at Uni had been quite horrific and relaxing with an old classic was just what he needed. It was what he would be doing if Greg was not in the picture. Not that he wanted to think much about that reality, however, for the very thought made his heart ache.

"Is what Gregory doing dangerous?" he asked quietly, as if he did not exactly care about the answer.

"Well, yeah," Dimmock answered easily. He was perched in the armchair, as if he had thrown himself at it and allowed himself to land randomly. "He didn't tell you what he was doing?"

"No." Mycroft ignored the twinge in his chest, the thought that this - thing knew more than he did about Greg's actions. It was wholly unpleasant.

"Figures," Dimmock snorted. "He always did like to protect the people he fancies."

"What do you mean?" Looking up from his book, Mycroft narrowed his eyes in Dimmock's direction.

"You know he's a demon, right? A half demon, anyway." Dimmock's lips curled unpleasantly around the word 'half', as if it was a swear word of sorts. "Did he tell you why he got kicked out of Hell?"

"Kind of," Mycroft admitted grudgingly. It seemed like he would be able to get information out of this man. Information he would rather get from Greg, all things considered, but in the current circumstances he would take what he could get. "He said he was too kind for Hell's standards."

"Basically, yeah," Dimmock agreed. "But there was more to it than that." He paused, tilting his head to the side, sharp eyes digging into Mycroft's skin. The book lay all but forgotten in his lap, still closed. "Got time for a story?"

*****

Greg reappeared not far from the mansion, his lips tensed into a firm line as he strode into the forest, moving as quickly as he dared. He didn't want to attract any attention, but he didn't want to dawdle, either. The portal to Hell wasn't far from the clearing where he had met Mycroft officially for the first time. He had not been lying; he had not intended to interact with him. It had just happened.

No. He forced all thoughts of Mycroft from his mind. For what he was going to do, he needed to be the sharpest he had ever been. When Dimmo brought the news of his mother's imminent demise, he knew he had to make the trip one last time. It wasn't going to be a pleasant one - he was the sole descendant in his family and now the one in charge of his mother's possessions. He knew he would receive trouble from his extended family, all attempting to claim their family heirlooms. Even stepping foot in Hell would land him in trouble, after the way he left.

Ah, there it was. Taking a deep breath, he stood in the correct spot. The portal sensed his demon blood, sensed who he was, and Greg felt the slight tingling that always preceded a transition. A flash of gray light surrounded him and he was gone.

When he opened his eyes, he was in one of the clear cylinders that those who entered Hell arrived in. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the thick glass and stepped out. The air was thick and humid, sticky and cloying on his skin. There were a few demons gathered by the exit, and as Greg approached, their chatter faded and stopped, their eyes narrowed and pointed in his direction. He firmly affixed a mask onto his face, seemingly unaffected by their blatant suspicion of him.

"What are you here for?" One asked, his voice a low, rumbly snarl. Greg eyed him coolly, unconcerned.

"I'm here as the head of the Lestrade clan," he replied, shifting so that he was standing more firmly, in case he needed to ward off an attack. Not that he would necessarily be successful - he was woefully out of practice, after spending so long in the human realm. Frequent visits from Dimmo, however, had kept him somewhat in shape, and he had to rely on that coming across.

The second demon lifted an eyebrow skeptically. "Head of the Lestrade? Funny. Now go back to where you came from, Half."

"You can check my credentials," Greg said patiently. "But I'm Gregory Lestrade, only living child of Mother Lestrade, and as she is on her deathbed, I'm the head of the clan."

The first demon pulled out a small electronic device and pointed it in Greg's direction, and there was a soft click as it identified him. All demons had small implants put into their skin the day after birth, in order to be identified by such machines. It had mostly put an end to the rampant identity theft in Hell - it was a popular sport to get in trouble and blame it on someone else, after all. He clued back in to realize that the two demons were glaring at him. Which was good. Part of Greg wasn't sure if the implant would still work, but it did.

"How long will you be here?" One spat out, his sharp teeth showing underneath his thin upper lip.

"No more than a day or two." He smiled politely. "Now if you'll excuse me, I do have somewhere to be." A small part of Greg pointed out that he sounded rather like Mycroft, and if that wasn't a quick formula to getting beaten up, he didn't know what was. Ignoring the voice in his head he strode past the demon guards and out into the transit area.

Hell was a lot more technical than most humans gave it credit for. Most of the imagery he had found on Earth consisted of barren deserts and lots of fire. While there was fire in a way, the majority of it was found within the demons that existed within its bounds. They had hoverships and speeders and their builders were tall and technical. Although very few demons lost limbs anymore, those that did got prosthetics that worked about as well (if not better) than the original body parts.

Distastefully Greg reached out and accepted a small earpiece from the woman at the desk, fitting it into his ear. It stung as it settled in, built for a demon's ear canal and unused to the slightly different shape of Greg's half-human ear. "Hello, Greg," the soft, feminine voice chimed in his ear. "How may I direct you today?"

"The Lestrade clan, please," Greg said quietly. The earpiece communicated with his implant and learned his identity, and through that tuned to the sound of his voice. No matter how quietly he talked, it would hear and obey. Useful things, they were. Anyone who regularly lived in Hell had their own, but those who were visiting - no matter where they were from - and those who were going between Hell and Earth, had to use the one-use specialised ones.

"Continue forward six paces, turn left, and take the green skimmer," the voice said pleasantly.

"Thank you," Greg said automatically in response, walking the requisite number of paces and catching sight of the sharp-eyed, female demon who was standing outside of the sleek machine.

She nodded at him and stepped into the skimmer, settling into the pilot's seat without saying a word. He strapped himself into the broad passenger seat in the back. It was a small skimmer, made for two passengers, and likely a vehicle for small, constant transport. The Hell equivalent of a taxi.

He fingered the synthetic fabric of the straps, allowing himself to be momentarily distracted by the nostalgia. Memories flooded his mind, things that had happened long ago. Being buckled into a small, personal skimmer when he was little, his Mum’s hands careful as they tightened the straps, his older brother watching anxiously as the little brown-haired boy bounced eagerly in the seat and giggled. Being granted his first personal skimmer, old enough to take it out and drive around, the straps digging into his skin as he pushed the vehicle past its limits. Unconsciously he traced the line on his thighs, where scars should have been from the crash that killed his older brother and left him, a Half, as the head of the Lestrade clan.

A slight shake of his head dispelled the memories that lingered. The skimmer was starting to slow, starting to slide to a stop in front of the complex that served the majority of his clan as a home. He unbuckled his straps and pressed a finger to the small touchpad in front of him. A small tingle raced through his body as the scanner sought out his implant, confirming his identity, and using that as access to the bank accounts he held as the heir to the Lestrades. A soft ping indicated that the appropriate tip was withdrawn, and he nodded his head at the driver before departing the skimmer.

Something settled low in the pit of his stomach, something wrong. He shook his head, shaking the feeling away. It was odd, being back. He had not been back there since - since it was too long ago to contemplate. Forcing a deep breath of Hell’s thick, humid air into his lungs, he stepped forward, pressing his hand to the palm scanner that marked the thick metal gate. The scanner hummed underneath his hand, verifying his identity with the briefest blink of a green light before the gates parted, allowing him to walk through. This was it, he told himself. He had twenty four hours. Surely that was enough to get the mess sorted out and get him back to Mycroft on time. He hoped it was.

Greg was so lost in his own thoughts that he did not notice when the hand appeared to hold a cloth against his mouth and nose. Startled, he took a deep breath of some kind of chemical and felt the world fade to black around him.

*****

Mycroft watched Dimmock intently, as if gauging whether or not he was telling the truth. He very much did want to know, wanted to hear the parts of the story that could help him more understand why Greg did the things he did. “Yes, I do,” he said finally. Better now than once Sherlock and Greg were back.

“When Greg was in Hell, he was the sole heir to the Lestrade clan,” Dimmock started. He shifted so that he was comfortable, looking thoughtfully at Mycroft as he spoke. “Cute little tyke, he was, although no one would ever say it. He was happy and considerate and - those things are odd, in Hell.” He shook his head slightly. “His Mum was the head of the clan, and she’s a fierce, proper demon. She had a soft spot for him, at least while he was little.”

“In Hell, we go to school like you do, except the subjects are different. We learn how to fight, both with technological assistance and without. As a Half, Greg was just enough slower than us that he lost pretty much every fight he was in. And he was in a lot of them.” Dimmock shrugged. “Half demons get bullied a lot. Most of them commit suicide by the time they reach maturity. There are betting pools, actually. Underground.”

Mycroft felt sick to his stomach. The mere thought of someone betting on - he couldn’t even think of it. Couldn’t think of the reality Dimmock was describing. “Isn’t that unnecessarily cruel?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.

“Just how things are.” Dimmock’s eyes were on Mycroft, and he could not read what they said, could not read the emotions underlying. Or at least he wished and hoped he couldn’t, and that was why he could not see anything in those dark eyes. He couldn’t think of a world where - demons, where whatever they were classified as - couldn’t feel anything for others. No compassion. “He was bullied like the others, growing up. He missed most of a year because he was beaten so badly that he had to be rewired. And he shrugged it off. He forgave the people that did it to him. Wouldn’t even tell us their name. He protected them all.” Dimmock sneered, as if it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard of. “His Mum finally told him he needed to either fight, or leave. Greg chose to leave.”

Mycroft was not sure what to say to any of this. It was worse than he had feared, and left him with emotions and questions that he was not certain how to handle. It explained quite a bit, from Greg’s cautious demeanour when it came to Hell to the way he was sassy with Mycroft but became sweet and gentle when the time called for it. Demon blood although he had, underneath it all Greg was the sweetest person Mycroft had ever known.

Dimmock tilted his head at Mycroft's prolonged silence, seemingly amused. "You're quite the little human, aren't you?"

Stung, Mycroft stiffened, his blue eyes turning colder as he brushed a molecule of dirt off of his suit jacket. At slightly over six feet in height, he was little by no definition of the word. Not in power, not in appearance - nothing. And this trumped-up demon with no heart was going to have to work a lot harder to make Mycroft forget his. "That is quite an assumption, with varied levels of meaning," Mycroft replied pointedly, walking over to the small kitchenette in the corner. It was nothing big, nothing enough to cook a full meal, but he kept quite a stash of expensive teas and a kettle and teacups hidden in a cupboard. There was a smaller cabinet with his stash of alcohol, but Mycroft ignored it. He didn't want a repeat of last time he drank.

As he filled the electric kettle with water and turned it on, he fought the shiver that threatened to race down his spine. Dimmock's eyes were on him, Mycroft could feel them burning his skin. "I unnerve you," Dimmock said, sounding inappropriately happy at the thought.

Mycroft chose silence as a response. This wasn't school, where he had to make up with the diplomats and get on their good side. This was his turf, and he could do as he pleased. The kettle made a low whistling noise and Mycroft pulled out a mug, ignoring his delicate teacups for something more sturdy in his shaking hands. Soon his tea was steeping, and he stood and watched it, seemingly mesmerized by the way the water slowly changed colours. It was normal, and fascinating in its normality. God he missed Greg.

Removing the small ball of tea leaves soaking in the mug, he took the cuppa and sat it on a small end table near his bed and a considerable distance from Dimmock. It took some huffing and puffing, but he pulled the armchair he frequented the most over to the end table, turning it sideways so that he could see Dimmock out of the corner of his eyes. He did not trust the full-blooded demon farther than he could throw him, and with the year-long interlude of his physical defense sessions, that was not very far. Grabbing the book he had previously selected, he sank down into his armchair to read and wait.

As the hours passed, it became harder and harder to focus. Sleep was out of the question. Even if he hadn't been a budding insomniac, there was no way his body was going to relax enough to allow sleep to overtake him. Dimmock sat quietly, unmoving, his strange, flat eyes taking in Mycroft's every move, every fidget. It was oddly like being a willing prisoner, stuck with a guard who had to monitor every action.

Mycroft's diet thanked him, for not a single bit of proper food (biscuits did not count) passed his lips over the next twenty four hours. He sat a silent, solitary vigil, punctuated only by frequent trips to the kettle (and to the loo - the tea had to go somewhere, after all). A buzz of Mycroft's phone shattered his thoughts, and he jerked in the armchair, pulled out of the half-awake stupor he had fallen into. It was an alert that Sherlock was about to arrive, having initiated his code at one of the farther outposts. What was more likely was that Sherlock had attempted to sneak through and had been thwarted by the security surrounding the Estate.

Sherlock. Something choked in Mycroft's throat, something heavy and uncomfortable, and he swallowed past the lump and forced his expression into a neutral mask. Doubtless Sherlock was expecting Greg to be there, and Mycroft had heard nothing from his demon partner - no, half-demon, as a sneering Dimmock would certainly correct. The corner of Mycroft's lips twitched at the thought of Sherlock meeting the full demon, for there certainly would be some attempt at a showdown should such a thing have occurred. "I do request that you stay here," Mycroft told the demon pleasantly, although his voice was a bit too strained and tight to be completely polite.

"I am responsible for your security at all times," Dimmock replied lazily, picking at something underneath his nails. "Greggy would be quite displeased if I let something happen to you."

"Greggy?" Mycroft couldn't hide his surprise (or disgust) at the nickname. "His name is Gregory."

"Ah, figure you'd be one of the stuffy types." Dimmock's sigh was long and drawn out, as sarcastic and full of suffering as he could make it. Mycroft's eyes narrowed, and he pointedly turned towards his wardrobe. He needed a shower and to dress in a clean suit, and he had a limited amount of time to accomplish both objectives.

"Although I am certain he would be pleased at how seriously you take your duties, they most certainly do not extend to the lavatory nor my wardrobe, so please dismiss yourself while I attend to my personal needs." Mycroft's voice was curt and dismissive, and Dimmock gave the politician-in-training an exaggerated eye roll.

"Do try to keep your wank in the shower short," he drawled before disappearing. Mycroft's cheeks flushed slightly and he glared at the blank space where the demon had previously occupied. He doubted that the demon was far away, not if he was keeping to his promise. Still, the unoccupied peace and quiet did wonders for Mycroft's fragile psyche and he carefully removed his now-wrinkled suit and hung it in the area to be sent to the cleaner's. He was particular about selecting a new suit, for it was vital that it presented the correct impression. Sherlock read him quite well, and he did not want his newly-clean younger brother picking up on his worry nor his fear over the current state of his love life.

Stepping under the hot water once he was nude, Mycroft allowed the firm spray to pound onto his shoulders, easing some of the tension that had built up over the past twenty four hours. It was painful, almost, the knots in his muscles. Immobility did have that as a negative consequence, and it was not something Mycroft was unfamiliar with. Carefully he went through the moves he had been taught, rotating his shoulders and joints to ease them back into motion. He had been taught these by one of his nannies when he was young, not long after it became apparent what role he was going to play in his country.

That was the downside to being the eldest Holmes, Mycroft thought ruefully. Your whole life was planned for you, and you were allowed no wiggle room. Not that Mycroft wholly minded, for what it was worth. He had an intense love of politics and although that love did not encompass hours and hours of dull negotiation with insipid cretins that attempted to diplomatically run countries, he took the good with the bad and mostly kept his mouth shut.

Except for Greg. Greg, who took all of Mycroft's good with all of Mycroft's bad and - and seemed to love him for who he was. He took the occasional drinking with the sleepless nights and the intense focus and Mycroft's stilted, often too-formal way of speaking. He took the long hours of work and the difficult decisions that he would have to make in the future, he took the support, he took the love that Mycroft was offering and asked so very little in return. Mycroft could not help but think that he got the better deal in the bargain. A shiver ran down his spine as he stroked himself to completion, coming as he whispered Greg's name into the torrent of water beating down upon him.

He finished his shower and stepped out onto the tile, grasping the towels and drying himself off with quick, brusque efficiency. Sherlock was doubtlessly already attempting to destroy the manor and with young Mr. Watson with him, there was little doubt that he would at least partially succeed. He dressed rapidly, wearing the suit as if it was battle armour. In a way, it was. He needed the mental fortitude to face his maelstrom of a younger brother and as it seemed that Greg's business would call him away for longer than he had anticipated, Mycroft was what was left. To no one would he admit that the thought scared him.

Although he dearly loved Sherlock, the two had had such a volatile relationship, and for Mycroft to be the sole supporter from the manor at the beginning of Sherlock's recovery... He feared for the dark-haired man's continued sobriety. Straightening his lapels, he adjusted the knot of his tie and left his room, ignoring the way the shadows flickered. So Dimmock was following him, then. It was something Mycroft felt he had to get accustomed to.

The door slammed open and Sherlock stood in the opened doorway, a smaller shadow standing right next to him. Sherlock's face turned in Mycroft's directions and immediately the eyes narrowed. "Mycroft," Sherlock said darkly. "Where's Lestrade?"

"Unfortunately he has been detained by some unavoidable circumstances," Mycroft said pleasantly. "Is this John Watson?" He peered around his younger brother, attempting to hide the fact that he was trying to get a look at the mysterious teenager. Sherlock scowled and shifted, blocking Mycroft's view.

"What kind of unavoidable circumstances?" Sherlock asked harshly. "You didn't dump him, did you?"

"Of course not," Mycroft replied evenly. "You know he has - other priorities."

"Besides me?" Sherlock snorted. "Or you, for that matter."

"Sherlock," the small but stern voice came from behind him. A shorter figure stepped forward, allowing Mycroft to catch sight of him. John Watson was half a foot shorter than Sherlock, with dark blue eyes and short blond hair. He was an ordinary sort of man, at least on the outside. Mycroft knew that was not the case; no one normal on both the inside and out would hold Sherlock's attention for that long. He was dressed plainly, in an oatmeal jumper and faded denim jeans, running shoes poking out from underneath the hems of the trousers. "I'm John Watson."

Mycroft smiled his polite smile. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance," he said to the shorter man. "I hear you have learned the secret to handling my younger brother."

The look John threw in Sherlock's direction held a fond undercurrent that made something lurch in Mycroft's stomach. He wanted his Gregory back, wanted the half-demon to look at him like that and smile and - no, he couldn't. Already he had shown too much, if the expression on Sherlock's face was anything to go by. "You could say that," John said cryptically, apparently watching Mycroft instead of Sherlock. Yet Mycroft saw as Sherlock shifted his expression back into a blank mask, his eyes moving to John as the smaller man took his place by Sherlock's side.

"Sherlock, have you shown John to his guest room?" Mycroft asked.

A possessive arm snaked about John's shoulders, and there was the barest hint of pink on the smaller man's cheeks. Mycroft could not stop the way his eyebrows rose in surprise; this was not something he had anticipated. "He shall be staying with me," Sherlock said pointedly. His expression indicated that Mycroft should not argue, for it would be the height of hypocrisy if he did. And Mycroft could not argue either point.

“As you wish,” Mycroft said finally. “If you need anything, do feel free to ask.” Sherlock scowled and stomped off in the direction of his room, John following him dutifully. “And Sherlock?”

His younger brother and his shadow paused and turned back slightly, listening. “Do try not to blow up the house. You know how it will upset the servants after last time.”

Sherlock scowled at the wall and walked out, John chuckling as he followed. The door behind them closed slowly enough that Mycroft could hear John’s eager voice asking questions, although he could not make out the words. There was a soft hum from the wall, and Mycroft turned to see Dimmock watching him curiously.

Something hot - shame? Embarrassment? ran through Mycroft’s body, and he turned around and curtly walked back to his bedroom. He needed more tea.

*****

Throbbing pain in his head woke Greg up, and he groaned as he shifted, realizing that his hands were bound tightly behind him While that would have been a good way to wake up (or end up, rather) if it had been Mycroft doing it, the circumstances surrounding this were far from pleasant. His memories came flooding back and he banged his head back against the wall, hissing at the throb of pain. It was a trap, it had been a trap, and he walked straight into it.

Everything had been planned, from the earpiece to the skimmer to the palmprint working. It would have been so unlike his mother to not completely erase him from the system after his banishment, and he should have been skeptical the moment he was allowed in. Instead, now he was in a dark, dank room, bound although thankfully not blindfolded. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“You’re awake,” drawled the sultry voice of his mother. He blinked owlishly a few times and allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark, turning in her direction. “Shame, it took you longer than I thought. Disappointing, Greg.”

“Hello, Mother,” he said evenly, trying to keep from sounding too bitter. “I thought you banished me.”

“That was then,” she said dismissively. “This is now. I do so need someone to keep my clan running, and biologically, you are my only option. Besides, I hear you have quite the boyfriend. Good politician, too.”

Greg stiffened and fell silent for a few minutes, fighting to get his racing heart under control. No. She couldn’t be suggesting - she couldn’t. No, there was no way he would allow that. Mycroft - Mycroft couldn’t. “I don’t think that’s a good decision, Mother,” he said evenly. There was a small flicker of surprise that his Mother knew of Mycroft, but when the mood took her, there was little she didn’t know about. He would have been easy to spy upon, especially when intoxicated. Mycroft, however - Mycroft was relatively new.

There was no way he could bring himself to contemplate what she was suggesting. There was a way to make a human a demon, but it was - gruesome, many died, and far too painful for Greg to even think about willingly inflicting on Mycroft. His boyfriend had a far more important destiny than tending to the catty inhabitants of Hell, no matter who decided it was a good idea. Mycroft was far too tender-hearted when it came to Greg. Mycroft didn’t deserve to be turned, and Greg would do anything to make sure it did not happen. The bigger question in play was how his mother knew of Mycroft’s existence.

He gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to slam his fists on the ground. No. No, no. The only option was Dimmo - Dimmock, a friend he had had since primary school, the only full-blood to tolerate him without threats or incentive. The demon he had left behind with his human lover. “I see you’re figuring it out,” she purred. “You were always so smart. Not brutish and incompetent, like your cousins.”

Greg refrained from pointing out that it was her fault for picking such an incompetent partner for her sister. That would merely make things worse. “I thought you were going to pick Marsie to inherit,” he said. “That was the plan, that year I was in the hospital.”

She tsked. “Your wiring needs to be updated, I take it.”

“I’ve done fine for years without an update,” he responded coolly. “I can function for years more. You know it disappears if I ever leave the Grounds.”

“Still,” she said, her sultry smile on her face. “Since you will be living here again, it would be unseemly for the Heir to the Lestrades to have poorly maintained wiring.”

Greg took a few moments to look his mother over, seeing what had changed in the thirty years since he had left Hell. She was as tall as he was and sinewy, all lean muscle hidden underneath a long black dress. Which was good, because last time he had seen her she was in skintight leather, and that was really something he didn’t enjoy seeing his mother wearing, scary demon clan leader or not. Dark chestnut hair cascaded down her shoulders, tinged with gray about the roots. Black eyes looked out at Greg, sharp in their intensity, framed by long eyelashes. Her lips were full, although curved into a wicked grin. “Why would you think that?” he asked cautiously.

His mother chuckled, low and throaty, and Greg felt something coil in his stomach. He recognised the emotion - pure, unadulterated fear. “Oh, Greg. You’re so adorable when you think you have a choice.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last chapter of the main story. Yup. This is the end.
> 
> There's going to be an epilogue that'll go up in about a week, maybe less, depending on how long it is.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> You can find me at [my tumblr](http://iolre.tumblr.com) to see all that I've been up to and will get up to!

Three days had passed. Three long, torturous days. Surely Greg should have been back by now. He had said two days, maximum. Dimmock, his friend, had been restless and shifty, and Mycroft had had to work harder to ignore him as the time went by. Sherlock and John wrecked mutual havoc on the Estate, getting into various buildings and protected areas all in the name of Sherlock's experiments. Mycroft did not even have the heart to enact much discipline. Even if he tried, all it took was a cutting remark from Sherlock and it was like a knife had been stabbed into his heart.

It would have been easier to pretend Greg had never existed, to deny that the past few months of utter bliss had never happened. Not that it was possible, however, with the reminder constantly lurking around. Although Mycroft never explicitly ordered the demon out of his room, Dimmock had been consistently silent ever since the discussion about Gregory's past. Mycroft did like him better that way and was in no place to object. So instead he did work, sipping tea constantly, not sleeping, and sorting through the piles of paperwork he would inherit once he graduated.

Not that it helped much. There were reminders in the topics, sending Mycroft's mind back to the times at University where he would work late into the morning, Greg watching him or smiling or dragging him to bed when Mycroft was pushing himself too hard. He scowled, disgusted, and closed the file. There was no way he could get work done, not when his mind drifted so. There was a crash not far from his door and he sighed. While Greg had had some success in building a relationship with the cantankerous teen, Mycroft could claim far less. Sherlock still sneered the moment he saw his older brother, and although John attempted to be polite, he was clearly on Sherlock's side of the fence (Mycroft suspected in more ways than one).

With Mycroft's luck there would be some trap waiting outside of his room. Not that he really had a plan to leave his bedroom, since Gregory had not yet returned and Mycroft preferred to wait. He smoothed out the wrinkles in his suit, grimacing at how wrinkled it was after wearing it for two days. How time passed when he was not paying attention to it he did not know, but it was always faster than he particularly desired it to be. "Has there been any news?" he asked Dimmock politely, not lifting his eyes from the stack of papers on his desk.

"Nope," Dimmock responded, flicking the pages of a magazine he had found somewhere that was resting on his lap. He seemed particularly interested in all things human, as if he had never seen them before and doubted he ever would again.

Mycroft lifted his head and studied the demon for a few moments. "Do you consider yourself his friend?" he asked.

"Yup." Another page turned, sharp eyes raking in the page's contents. Some supermodel. Absently Mycroft wondered if demon women were as angular as the men, and if that's why Dimmock appeared so fascinated with the slight curviness of the model on the page.

"Why are you not worried then?" This time Mycroft was exasperated, and he couldn't help the way his hands tightened minutely on the file that he gripped. His knuckles were white, and he had to fight to stop the tension in his shoulders from invading his body.

"How long have you known Greggy?" Dimmock looked up from the magazine, his dark eyes unnerving as they met Mycroft's. He fought to keep his composure, ensuring that he did not turn away from the penetrating gaze.

"Slightly less than six months," Mycroft admitted grudgingly. Their relationship sounded so trivial when placed in context of how long it had been going on. What they had was unique, and the fact it was shorter than what was the normative time for a ‘solid relationship’ was of no consequence to Mycroft.

"See, I've known Greggy for a long time," the demon said, turning his gaze back to the magazine as if there was nothing else in the world. "And if he's anything, he's resourceful. A bit too kind, yeah, but he survived." There was a pause as Mycroft took in those words, contemplating the real meaning underneath Dimmock's phrasing. If there was one, which would not surprise Mycroft in the slightest, it was probably an insult of sorts to the half demon. There didn't seem to be any other method of discussing the mere existence of a half-demon.

"But you have no idea of where he is or what he is doing," Mycroft said skeptically.

"Oh, I know what he's up to." This time he tossed the magazine down on the floor, apparently bored by its existence, and stood up and stalked over to Mycroft's bookshelves.

"Careful, please," Mycroft muttered automatically, eyes anxious as he watched the demon toy with the leather-bound books. Dimmock rolled his eyes and picked a newer copy of a book that Mycroft was particularly fond of.

"They're just books," Dimmock muttered in protest, the movement sharp as he flicked open the cover.

"But they're important books," Mycroft said. "Now, you stated that you know what Gregory is - as you say - up to?"

"Mhm," Dimmock hummed, his focus on the clean pages in front of him. His eyes moved so fast that Mycroft was not completely sure that he was actually reading; for all Mycroft knew he was skimming and making up the bits he did not understand. He had never seen Greg read before - was it that way for all demons? Mycroft made a mental note to ask later, adding it to the list of things he was curious about. "His mother - is on her deathbed," Dimmock said, his tone bored. "Greggy's the only living heir, so he had to go back to deal with things."

"Did you know her well?" Mycroft asked, his eyes narrowing as he examined Dimmock's body language.

"Well enough," Dimmock said.

"You don't seem particularly put out by her imminent demise," Mycroft said slowly. "You're lying."

"Maybe," Dimmock agreed nonchalantly, examining the pages of the book with a vacant expression. "If I was, there is nothing you could do about it, anyway, so it would be best for you to live in happy oblivion."

"I disagree with that," Mycroft said vehemently, barely able to contain the snarl that wanted to erupt from his throat. Attacking the demon would do very little; he had to contain himself, find out more about what was going on. As Dimmock fell silent, there was little Mycroft could do but sit and sulk. He dare not physically attempt to make the demon talk, for he feared that could very much end badly for him. Although his intellect was to be feared, there was little hope in his mind that he could overpower a demon.

A part of him remarked at the amazing ability he apparently possessed to believe so astutely in the supernatural, and he shrugged it aside. It did little good to ponder what he could not change, and right now he would give anything to have Greg back home with him, safe and away from whatever was preventing him from coming home.

*****

"You know, Mother, you can remove the handcuffs," Greg said reproachfully, watching the tall woman as she sat behind the desk.

"As I am fairly certain that they are the only thing binding you to Hell at this point - I think not," she replied steadily, ignoring him as she sorted through papers on the desk. "Now sit. I do believe you have a passing familiarity with these forms, but as you are to take over someday, you need more than a passing familiarity with some paperwork in order to run this clan successfully."

"Especially with what my cousin and his group are up to," Greg muttered darkly, obediently sitting in the chair opposite his mother. They were not true handcuffs in the sense that his wrists were bound together. Instead they were thin black bands of spelled fabric, one on each ankle and wrist. The spell in them somehow prevented a demon from using the portals that could allow them to go up to Earth. Although primarily used for containing demons who had had their travel permissions revoked, they were also useful in cases like Greg's. While under the laws doing so was explicitly illegal, Greg highly doubted that they would bother to go after the head of the Lestrade clan for anything less than fifty or sixty murders. Even then it was a toss.

It had been a few torturous days that Greg had counted down each moment, aware that Mycroft was probably in a state of panic by that point. And Sherlock - his heart clenched at the thought. Sherlock would think that Greg had abandoned him, that he didn't care. Greg just hoped that John or someone would be able to temper Sherlock enough so that he did not resort to the chemicals that had got him in trouble in the first place, for there was nothing he could do at the moment and likely not for another few days. If Greg was completely honest, he was not even completely certain that he would be able to escape in time to see Mycroft before he left. However, the half-demon held onto the optimistic thought that he would be able to escape at all.

His mother had spent years wrangling demonic tricks. It was simply run of the mill for the Matriarch of such a large clan. However, Greg was a half-demon, and tricks worked differently on them. He had a sneaking suspicion that his bloodline meddled with the bracelets he was wearing, but he was not certain which way the effect swang - it could make them more effective, or less, and tampering with them often had fatal or near-fatal consequences. Any escape plan he had came up with was tenuous at best, and none of them had gotten him as far as back to Mycroft and in Mycroft's bed kissing said person. Though wasn't that just a nice thought.

No, he couldn't let himself get distracted. "Greg?" His mother's voice was sharp, cutting through his thoughts like a knife cut through butter. "If you are that distracted thinking about your lover, I could always arrange for him to be brought down here." She raised a hand, fingers poised to snap.

"Not at all, Mother," Greg replied stiffly, trying to conceal how deeply that threat haunted him. He would rather die, rather swear off Mycroft forever then his partner brought down and sentenced to the same life Greg suffered through. Not that his mother cared in any way, shape, or form - she just wanted to get Greg to obey and threatening him was the quickest way. "I was merely contemplating if there was a way we could combine this form with that one. I think there is such a way if we combine these two lines, and arrange the columns as so..." He pointed out the relevant sections, pleased to see his mother looking suitably distracted. Greg may not have been what they classified as ‘demon smart’, but it was more than enough to get him through everything he had to do to maintain the vague awareness he had to play.

Their discussions continued for several hours, until his Mother was fairly certain that Greg had a decent grasp on at least a quarter of the immense load of paperwork required to run the household. At least if he did take over the clan, it would be primarily an administrative role, he mused. At the same time he wanted to slap himself for having such a thought, but there was no way he could carry out such an action without drawing notice from the remainder of the inhabitants of the house and such odd behavior would certainly make its way back to his mother. Not that she would understand it, but she knew to reference the books on human behavior in order to ascertain where that particular behavior had arisen from.

Mycroft was the name his lips formed, but the name that could not pass his lips. The more times it was said in Hell, the more power it gathered, and the hell Greg was going to anything to potentially harm his boyfriend. His partner, the love of his life. The one he was going to give everything up for, if only he had the chance. And his Mother was determined to take his chance away.

As Greg rounded the corner, he walked straight into a demon. He pulled back, a snarl on his lips (not an apology, never an apology - not anymore), and then froze. "You!" he hissed, finger jabbing pointedly into the demon's chest.

\--

Mycroft sat at his desk. Five days. Five long, torturous days without Greg. A sob caught his his chest and he forced it back down, not allowing his inner turmoil to show on his face. He couldn't. Couldn't allow himself to face the fact that Greg was gone, and his unconcerned friend was steadily working his way through Mycroft's book collection, much to Mycroft's dismay. Exhaling steadily, Mycroft massaged his temples with a tense hand. He had not seen hide nor hair of Sherlock nor John for at least the past twenty four hours, although he had refused to leave his bedroom, and he knew he was doing everyone a great disservice. Sherlock should not be left alone, John would need supervision, but Mycroft just - he missed Greg, missed him like there was a giant hole in his heart that he did not know how to fix.

"You miss him." Dimmock's quiet, wondering voice wasn't a question, it was a statement.

"Yes," Mycroft said quietly, not even bothering to deny it. There was no way he could deny it. There wasn't a reason why he wanted to deny it. He missed Greg as if he missed a phantom limb, something that should be there but wasn't.

Something seemed to be warring on Dimmock's face, and Mycroft narrowed his eyes intently. Although he did not know what it was, there was a point that was hanging in the balance, a decision Dimmock was about to make that Mycroft would put a significant amount of currency it had to do with Greg. "How did you meet?" he asked finally.

"Gregory did not tell you?" Mycroft said amicably, leaning back in his chair and closing the documents in front of him.

Dimmock's face was neutral, a mask that hid his thoughts and emotions. As practiced Mycroft was at dissembling masks, the farthest he could get with Dimmock's was simply that it existed. The demon was simply harder than most humans, able to focus more intently. A strange sort of intelligence lurked behind his gaze, and Mycroft shifted in his chair. "Greggy and I don't talk about his life up here," he answered. Dimmock seemed reluctant, as if there was something shameful or bitter about that sort of confession. Mycroft couldn't help but wonder if there were many half demons (or demons, for that matter) that were ever banished from Hell.

"If I answer that question, will you answer mine?" Mycroft inquired politely.

"Depends what it is." Dimmock didn't miss a beat, setting the book aside and leaning back into the armchair he had temporarily adopted and sprawling over it. "I won't answer what Greg's doing in Hell, nor will I tell you why I'm asking."

"There was an altercation between my parents and I retreated to a neutral area," Mycroft started. "It was there that I discovered Gregory who apparently was attempting to conceal himself from the majority of prying eyes." A faint smile lit Mycroft's face, his first in days. "Not that he did a particularly good job. He's rather difficult to hide. Regardless, I made his acquaintance then and we continued to associate from thereon forward."

"Did they have you memorise a dictionary when you were a kid, followed by grammar books?" Dimmock asked skeptically. He seemed rather amused by Mycroft's wordy way of phrasing, and the politician to be shrugged.

"I did undergo a certain amount of training in order to improve my vocabulary and my diction," he conceded. "However, I do believe that answers your question sufficiently."

"And you continued to stay in touch while you were at school?" Dimmock clarified.

"Yes." Mycroft could not regret the time he had spent with Gregory no matter what, even if it left him as he was now. Dimmock had been right in that Gregory was quite resourceful, and it was a thought that Mycroft had to cling fiercely onto in order to prevent a total collapse. He feared that Sherlock was doing the same, and did not even want to think what Gregory's absence was doing to the younger man.

"Your question, then." Mycroft watched as Dimmock crossed his arms, thinking over what question he wanted to ask of the demon while he had the chance.

"How did you meet?" he asked, firing the same question in return.

"Copying, are we?" Dimmock said, sounding somewhat amused. "We met when we were children. Gregory was young - for your kind. I saved him from the bully of our school for two years, and we became friends." He shrugged dismissively. "Not much beyond that."

"Why did you save him?" Mycroft questioned, his gaze hard as he watched Dimmock's every move. All he could think about was Dimmock's speech about how half bloods were essentially useless, how they were the scum of Hell and how the entire population thought they should die. Yet Dimmock had confessed to protecting one of the so-called Half demons and did not even seem put out by such an occurrence. It was treated almost as if it was to be expected.

Dimmock's turned away from Mycroft, staring somewhere to his left, eyes narrowing slightly as he thought through what he was going to say. "I am part of a small branch clan of the Lestrades. I'm older than Greg by about six years, and I was the same age as Byron - as his older brother." He took in a breath and then exhaled, as if the words hurt him to say. "Byron was killed in a car crash Greggy survived not long before he entered school. Byron wasn't dead on arrival. He made it to the hospital, and I got to see him one last time. Got to tell him - well, I got to see him. And he made me promise to look after Greg, because even then he knew that he was going to have it rough."

"Over time I actually started to like him, and we became friends. He was smart, in a different sort of way. He was so similar and different at the same time. Byron was his half-brother, and Greg was more his father than his mother, so they weren't very similar, but I could see Byron in him every time I saw him, and..." Dimmock trailed off, showing the most emotion that Mycroft had seen in his multiple interactions with the demon. "I had to protect that. Protect what was left of him."

"You loved him," Mycroft said simply.

"I suppose," Dimmock replied, his voice more dismissive than thoughtful. "Love isn't very well thought of in demon circles," Dimmock said frankly. "We look at relationships in terms of what they can give us, rather than what we care for."

"Except for Gregory," Mycroft pointed out.

Dimmock's face softened slightly. "Yes." Absently he ran a hand through his spiked hair, looking contemplative, resigned. "He always has been the exception."

The room fell back into silence, except it was more comfortable this time. There was something more human to Dimmock now, although Mycroft still abhorred the policies the demon had described. He opened the file on his desk, thumbing through the papers as he read an article that described some behind the scenes trouble that had been present in the country a few years prior. His professor had assigned it, primarily to accustom him to the various types of documentation (formal and informal) that he would be exposed to in the position he would step into once he graduated.

"I have to go." Dimmock stood up and looked at Mycroft, the frightening intensity of his gaze pinning the politician in his seat. It was disconcerting, being pinned by that gaze. Mycroft was rarely frightened by anything, yet in that moment, he felt like a world hung in the balance. "Stay here. Don't leave for anything."

*****

"What the fuck was that, Dimmo?" Greg hissed, his arm pressed against Dimmock's throat. "You told her about Mycroft. You didn't come to get me, you came to make contact with him, to Harvest him if you needed to." Harvesting was how a human was turned into a demon. It was a dark, bloody process, and few survived. Greg’s fury diminished as he got a good look at Dimmock's face, saw the expression in his eyes, but he didn't draw back more than a few millimetres. "What did she say?"

"Byron," was all Dimmock said. "She threatened to expose - that."

Greg drew back slowly, his expression changing. Any sort of love in Hell was seen as a weakness, and especially among the social circles Dimmock was required to stay in, he would essentially be ostracised and thrown out. He would become like Greg, banished with no hope of return. That wasn't an option for him. Dimmock - Greg had to admit that Dimmock wasn't a good choice to leave Hell. He likely wouldn't survive, if he even survived physically leaving. Most full-blooded demons would not cope well with going to Earth permanently, giving up their demon status forever. Greg was more used to that idea, having spent so much time above Hell, although he tried not to think too much about the outcome. It was a painful process, but one he considered crucial.

"So why are you here, then?" he asked finally. "Mycroft's not with you, so he's safe, then."

"I'm getting you out of here." Dimmock had lowered his voice, and cast nervous glances around the area surrounding them. "I'm tired of your mother pushing you over, and Greggy, you would be miserable here."

"Putting it fucking politely," Greg muttered.

"You..." Dimmock hesitated, his gaze shifting away from Greg, and his long fingers plucked at his shirt sleeve. "Mycroft needs you, as much as you need him. He's not bad, for a human. I don't think you could do better, someone like you."

As odd as it sounded, that was one of the nicest things Greg had ever heard from Dimmock. "He is, isn't he?" A soft smile curved Greg's lips. "Well, alright, then, let's get going."

Dimmock glanced around again, confirming that no one was around, before pulling a small sheathed knife from his waistband and uncovering the blade. It was dark obsidian, one of the enchanted blades that few were granted outside of the High Families. The demon caught him looking, and a small smile danced about his lips. "This was Byron's," he murmured, carefully slipping the knife under the edge of Greg's shackles and ripping through them with the dark blade. "It would have been yours if you had stayed."

"No, it wouldn't have," Greg replied. He winced as Dimmock left a scratch on his tanned skin, watching the dark blood ooze down his forearm. "Got Heal on you?" he inquired.

Dimmock rolled his eyes and bent down, cutting Greg's ankle shackles with two quick motions. Then he pulled out a small lip balm-like container from the same waist pocket, swiping it over the cut in Greg's arm and looking satisfied as the tissues knitted together. "There, prissy girl," he told Greg, teasing.

"Who's the girl here?" Greg poked back, a half-smile on his face. "Alright, Dimmo. How are we getting me out of here without her noticing?"

"Very carefully. Stay here." Dimmock disappeared, leaving Greg half-crouched into the shadows for the few long moments until the demon reappeared.

"What the fuck was that," Greg said feverishly. "More advance warning would have been nice."

"Shut it." Dimmock unzipped the bag and started pulling out accessories, shoving them in Greg's direction. "You're about to become a very pretty lady."

“No.”

“Mhm.”

“No fuckin’ way, Dimmock.”

“A lady doesn’t talk like that, Greggy.”

“Fuck you.”

“We’re starting with this.” Dimmock shoved a curly-haired chestnut wig at Greg. “You’ve got fishnets, a skirt, and a leather jacket. You’re gonna be the hottest chick in Hell.”

“I hate you, you know that?” Greg said vehemently.

“Yup. Now shut up and change.”

“I’m not going to change with you staring at me.”

“Oh c’mon. I’m not going to stop watching until you change.”

“You’re a creeper.”

“And what does that make you, Mr. Stalked-Mycroft-for-years.”

“How do you know about that?”

“I might’ve kept a bit of an eye on you.”

“Stalker.”

“Hypocrite.”

“Shut up,” Greg said with a scowl, although he secretly delighted in the friendly banter. It had been so long since he and Dimmock had fallen into such a comfortable state. Ignoring any sort of modesty, Greg removed all of his clothes but his pants, tugging on the fishnet tights, skirt, heeled boots, black shirt, and leather jacket that completed the ensemble. Dimmock slipped the wig onto his head, adjusting it so that it covered all of his hair and obscured most of his face.

“Some make up,” Dimmock muttered, pulling out a colours palette and doing Greg’s make up with a practiced efficiency that made Greg rather skeptical. Once that was finished, he pulled a mirror out and showed Greg his face. Even he had to admit he made a passable girl. Dimmock had done his make up carefully, accentuating the sharpness of his face to play up his demon features and downplaying the more subtle human features.

“Do I want to know where you learned how to do this?”

“Fuck you,” Dimmock retorted.

"Sorry, Dimmo," Greg sassed back. "I don't go for prissy boys like you."

Dimmock rolled his eyes, stuffing the remnants of the makeup back into the duffel bag and writing runes on it with his finger, murmuring the words he needed to activate the chips in the bag with. They were audio-controlled, set to respond only to the signature of his voice. Probably a code phrase too, Greg thought absently. Technology in Hell hadn't changed much since he had left, although it felt a lot newer than it had last time he had used it. It was going to be somewhat disappointing to go back to Earth, with its severe lack of anything highly technical. Greg didn't even have the drugs to ease his transition this time.

He had something better, though. He had Mycroft.

"Let's go," Greg said simply. Dimmock looked up from where the bag had disappeared and nodded.

*****

Mycroft had decided to amend Dimmock's command to the entire estate. After all, he certainly could not have meant to just stay in his bedroom. That was simply inconceivable, particularly with Sherlock and John still roaming about. It had taken him a full twelve hours to decide on the amendment, however. Dimmock should take that for the high praise it was. Stepping back from his desk, he dressed quickly in one of his sharpest suits. It was like armour, preparing him for an assignation with an increasingly sharp-tempered Sherlock.

The walk to Sherlock's room was short, as ever, and he checked the door for any sign of trip wires. There were none, so he cautiously pushed the door open and walked inside, his face neutral as he confronted the two scowling teenagers. "Hello, Sherlock. John."

"Go away," Sherlock said automatically, rolling his eyes. "Go mourn your failure of a relationship." He looked at John, a mocking derision in his eyes. "If you could even call it that."

"Sherlock," John scolded, a slight flush on his face. "You don't mean that."

"Yes I do," Sherlock replied, ignoring the both of them now as he tinkered with a small machine in his hands. Mycroft could not tell what it was from less than three metres away, and he was not certain if that was a good or a bad thing. Quite possibly both, with Sherlock's habit of dissembling things. He was just pleased Sherlock was not turning his attention onto ravaging his own body.

He would most certainly make an exception if Sherlock continued remarking upon his and Gregory's relationship in such a manner. "Sherlock, as much as I have tried to teach you civility, I fear not even John will be able to tame you." There was the slightest amount of glee in Mycroft's insides as he watched his brother puff up like an insulted, haughty otter.

"I don't need to be tamed, Mycroft," he snarled. "Unlike some cake-eating glutton who can't even keep a peasant for a boyfriend for more than a few months."

"Sorry, Sherlock. This one was my fault." Mycroft was quite glad he had not been holding anything, for at that moment it felt like his whole body had gone slack at the sound of his partner's voice. His long-gone, gone-far-too-long partner. He turned slowly, his eyes wide with disbelief. Although he had tried to trust, tried to remain faithful, the core of him had been so very certain that Greg had left him for far better things than him. Such a fine specimen certainly had other options, and Mycroft still felt it ludicrous that Greg had decided to stay with him, had come back. "Not even a hug, love?"

"Gregory?" Mycroft blinked as he caught sight of his lover. It was then that his mind tuned in to the fact that Sherlock was laughing in the background, joined by the sound of John coughing to cover giggles. Not that he could completely blame them, for Greg certainly was - oddly attired. He just stared, shocked, his mind crashing as he attempted to process the fact that Gregory had indeed returned.

"Come with me," Greg said, stepping forward and pulling the politician towards him into a hug, arms wrapping steadily around Mycroft's shoulders. "We can talk about it then."

Mycroft allowed Greg to hug him for a long minute, until something smacked him in the arse. A projectile. Sherlock. "Get a room!" John shouted, and Sherlock snorted, presumably aiming something else at Mycroft's behind.

Greg lifted an eyebrow at the two boys and shook his head, and the noise diminished. Not that Mycroft heard much, regardless, for all that he registered was the warm limbs on him, the way Gregory gently guided him out of Sherlock’s bedroom.

*****

Sherlock whacked John with the newspaper. "Don't stare at him. That's disgusting."

"Well, you have to admit he's rather fetching to look at. And what did I tell you about the newspaper?"

"It's not an appropriate weapon for combating stupidity."

"Exactly."

"But it is an appropriate weapon for combating stupidity. Do you happen to know what would happen if the behemoth noticed you fancied its feast? I would have to clean up the mess, and you know I don't like messes."

"Unless you create them, that is." John leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his boyfriend's mouth, amused.

"Experiments are not messes, John - oomph!" Sherlock's argument was cut off as John kissed him again, firmer this time, ending conversation for a while.

*****

Greg left his arm about Mycroft's waist as they walked back to Mycroft's bedroom, and Mycroft continued to flex his hand about Greg's hip, as if reassuring himself that the demon was indeed firm muscle and bone and skin next to him. It was not long before they were inside Mycroft's bedroom, and Mycroft just stopped, not sure what to do, how to act. He had not even considered what the social protocol was for this kind of situation. He didn't know what Greg wanted, didn't know what had happened - he did not have nearly the information he desired to have. All he wanted to do was just to hold onto Greg and never let go, reassure himself that he was not going to be left alone again.

"Sorry to interrupt the welcome-home party, but I wanted to say goodbye before things got naked," Dimmock interrupted quickly as soon as Greg cupped Mycroft's face in his and pressed their lips together.

"Make it short, Dimmock," Greg muttered, wrapping his arms around Mycroft and drawing him close. The texture of his leather jacket felt odd against Mycroft’s suit and face, and Mycroft buried his head in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent. "I still haven't forgiven you for this bloody skirt."

"I'm not going back to Hell," Dimmock said, and Greg's eyebrows shot into his hairline. Mycroft barely noticed, his mind having been consumed by the reemergence of his partner. The two continued talking, but Mycroft did not listen. He closed his eyes, flexing his hand experimentally, feeling the texture of the clothes underneath his hand. Greg had not yet explained why he was wearing such garments, but he did not really care. It was not vital to anything. If Gregory had a habit of dressing as the opposite sex, Mycroft was not going to complain. It certainly raised interesting options.

"Hey, love. One moment." The warmth disappeared, and Mycroft tensed, panicking. His hands balled into fists and unraveled in turns as he fought to bring his body underneath his control. He was shaking, his mind blank. Gregory - where was he? He was gone, he had left. It was a hallucination, he had merely lost it once Sherlock had taunted him. He didn’t notice when warm hands were back on his body, carefully stripping him and re-dressing him. It was like he was in a trance, barely acknowledging the soft cotton as it slid up his body. "Talk to me," Greg murmured as he walked Mycroft gently over to the bed, stroking whatever part of his partner's body that he could get his hands on. “What’s going on in your mind.”

"You came back," Mycroft said, lifting his eyes to meet Greg’s. It was as if the last few days had not happened, as if Gregory had always been there and was going to stay.

Greg's breath left him in a sharp exhale, and he sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his partner between his legs and wrapping his arms around Mycroft's middle. "I'll always come back for you," he told him. That registered, somewhere deep in Mycroft's mind.

"What happened?" Mycroft asked, wrapping his arms around his partner's shoulders, wishing they could meld and become one, that he would never be separated from him ever again.

Greg spilled his story as quickly as possible, and Mycroft scowled at parts and allowed a faint smile to grace his thin lips at others. "He mentioned Byron," Mycroft said quietly, and Greg let go of him, scooting back to allow Mycroft to crawl onto the bed with him. He crawled onto the bed, stretching his long, lanky body against Greg's, reveling in his warmth. "He loved your brother."

"Love isn't really tolerated in Hell," Greg murmured in response, hand threading into Mycroft's hair and gently stroking the soft strands. "This - what we have - would have got us both evicted, much like I was."

"Did you know?" His eyes were half-closed, arms wrapped securely about his partner. He was never going to let go again, never let Gregory out of his sight. Not that it was in any way possible, and he was realistic enough to know that, but at least for now, he could hold on and remember that Greg was there.

"Yes." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Mycroft's head. "I recognised it for what it was not long after I met you."

"I don't want you to ever go back to Hell." Mycroft rolled over, rolling onto his stomach so he could see Greg, eyes fierce. "Promise me." Greg kissed him, lips warm and soft, sealing his promise. They settled back against each other, reveling in each other’s presence. "I missed you," he murmured, stroking his long, pale hands up and down Greg's back, noting with curiosity how the cotton clung to the contours of his back. "I love you."

"I know you were worried, love,” Greg said softly. “You don’t have to be.”

"I know," Mycroft said, the words ringing far truer than he had expected. He chuckled ruefully, and then a thought lit his mind. “Although I would not be terribly displeased with a propensity for alternative styles of dress, I do have to inquire as to the prior state of your attire.”

“Dimmo’s idea,” Greg said lazily. “Bastard.”

“You did look rather nice,” Mycroft murmured.

"Mhm," Greg agreed.

"I have an apartment for us." The politician-to-be broke the comfortable silence that had formed, neither man moving off of each other. He had not even bothered to unpack, which meant Greg must have figured out which suitcase had contained his pyjamas. "If - if you are still interested in leaving the estate, in my company." He fidgeted with the hem of Greg's shirt, suddenly nervous. Had their time apart changed Gregory's mind? What if he no longer wanted to leave with him?

"Of course I'm still interested, you git." Pulling Mycroft's face towards his, they kissed until they were breathless and dizzy.

"It's not going to be easy," Mycroft murmured once they had quieted, half drunk on Gregory’s affection. His ear was pressed to the half-demon's chest, just above his heart. It was reassuring, hearing the sound of his heartbeat. "My work is time-consuming. I am absent from the apartment often. Travel is frequent, and there will be years where I will be gone more than I am present. Communication is often sporadic in both intensity and duration. It will continue to get worse for many years before there is any hint of improvement."

Greg was quiet for a few moments, arms wrapped about his partner. "I won't be able to shadow travel anymore," he told Mycroft softly. "When I leave, I give up the demon part of me. I become completely human." It seemed to comfort him, the way he threaded his hand into Mycroft's hair. "I will live with you, and I will die with you, when the time comes. No, don't tense up, love." He squeezed Mycroft's waist with his other hand. "I like it."

"I am worried that you will regret it once you get a taste of how frantic managing several countries can be," Mycroft murmured.

"I'll get a job too, contribute to our finances," Greg assured him, ignoring the soft murmurs of protest from the sleepy man. "I want to, love. I would be wretchedly bored on Earth if I was just your trophy husband."

"But what a trophy you would make."

"Mm, I'll hold you to that," Greg said with a smile. "But seriously, Mycroft. I know it's going to be tough, and sometimes, we'll resent each other, and we're going to have to be honest and open with each other, and communicate. I think we can do that."

Mycroft was half asleep by that point, soothed both by Greg's words and his presence. The stroking was soothing, distracting, and the two lapsed into a comfortable, complacent silence. Greg was correct in his assumptions. Mycroft was nearly certain of it. It would be rough at points, but he and Gregory truly cared for each other, and that would see them through. In Gregory he saw echoes, of his past, of the present, and of their future.

And what a future it was.


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who have read Echo and commented or left lovely, lovely kudos. I appreciate each and every one of you! :) I'm so glad people enjoyed this piece as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> So...this is the end, I guess. I'm going to go curl in a ball and cry sad tears now.
> 
> (And drink Mystrade tea.)

Slowly Greg opened his eyes, wincing internally when he saw the multitude of machines that surrounded him. He had been shot, then. Crap. Mycroft was going to be pissed, and he was in Belize this week. If he had to cut his trip short because Greg had done something stupid...fucking serial killers. Greg was going to have to have a word with them as a whole, once he was feeling better.

"Do I need to compose a song to let you know how stupid that was, Greggy?" Dimmock's voice floated into his consciousness, and Greg turned his head, catching sight of the other Detective Inspector lounging in a chair.

"What are you doing here, Dimmo?" Greg asked, his words slow and clumsy despite his best efforts. "Didn't they foist my cases off on you?"

"Yeah." The ex-demon smirked. "I gave them to your little sergeant. Just to warn you, she's pretty keen on your job."

Greg rolled his eyes. Of course Sally was keen on his job. But at the same time, she was a good girl at heart, even if she did hold a mortal grudge against Sherlock. She would at least wait until Mycroft killed him and he was buried until she lobbied to be promoted. "Tell her not to worry. Once Mycroft gets wind of what happened, she won't have to wait for that spot to open up."

"Speaking of Mycroft..." Dimmock quickly vacated his chair and bolted out of the room, leaving Greg by himself. Greg blinked, momentarily puzzled, until the tall, slim figure of his lover appeared in the door. He had an umbrella in his hand and the tip was clacking against the sterile tile floor. Never a good sign.

"Hello," Greg tried cautiously, offering Mycroft as happy of a smile as he could muster. It was no use; if anything, Mycroft's lips tightened further until Greg was half-convinced that they would fall off. "Your face is going to stick like that, you know." That didn't work either. The umbrella continued tapping, and Mycroft came closer, standing less than twenty centimetres from the bed.

"Shot twice," Mycroft got out through gritted teeth. "Shot twice, by a serial killer." He forced himself to take a deep breath, and the false calm spread over his face, and he smiled his fake smile, the one that make Greg cringe because it never meant any good for the one it was bestowed upon. Most certainly in the doghouse, then. For a considerable amount of time.

"Only twice," Greg pointed out practically. "Dimmo saved me from the third shot." Okay, maybe mentioning that wasn't such a good idea. From the way Mycroft's face changed, he might not have known that particular piece of information. Exactly how many painkillers did they have him on? He didn't really want to know, because damn, they made him far too honest. They might has well have volunteered him to sleep on the couch for the next six weeks.

Not that Mycroft would allow that, not with his injuries. He would at least be considerate enough to have a hospital bed set up in the living room so that he could ignore Greg there.

Greg studied his partner's face, his gaze softening as he took in the tight lines on Mycroft's face. The distress, the fear - they were broadcast loud and clear for him to see, if he had taken longer to look. "Come here, love." He carefully scooted over in bed, wincing as he did so, but producing a space on the side that Mycroft could sit on. "Please." Reluctantly Mycroft took it, the umbrella taking a place on the chair Dimmock had been sitting in. "I'm okay, really." Greg took Mycroft's hand in his, squeezing it, his eyes locked with Mycroft's.

He watched as Mycroft's mask fought valiantly, but crumbled, leaving a worn man in its stead. Greg's heart thumped oddly (it was true, he could see it on the screen) as he tried not to think about how little sleep his partner had probably had over the past couple days. Although it was true that Mycroft's career was now to the point where he could abandon such trips to come to Greg's aid if it was necessary, that did not mean that his work did not take a toll on him. There was a time difference, there was the constant flying, the stress of negotiations - and that was all that Greg knew of. He was well aware that Mycroft did far more that he was unable to tell him about.

Not that it completely bothered him, for there were aspects of his job that he wasn't exactly in the spot to tell Mycroft about. Although he had no doubt that Mycroft could find out the details of any of Greg's cases with just a few clicks of his shiny phone and even shinier laptop. They were similar to the models that had somehow appeared in Greg's office, much to the amazement of his coworkers and supervisors. Not long after they had left the Estate, Greg had joined the police force, deciding that it was the best use of his time and something he was interested in.

Greg was still not completely human. Although he no longer had any of his demon abilities, including the ability to shadow travel, he still had a slight advantage in speed and strength, both of which he used frequently in his job. He had nearly fainted the day that Dimmock applied to work with him, and subsequently had begged Mycroft to help push the paperwork through, using brute force if he had to. And he had. He and Dimmo had been working together for about twelve years, and Greg had been in the force almost fifteen. It seemed like an eternity at the same time that it felt like he had just joined the force yesterday. He mostly enjoyed it, chasing after the criminals, helping people out. Homicide was tough, but after living in Hell for so long, human crimes rarely phased him.

Gently he reached a hand up to cup his partner's cheek, glad that Mycroft had closed the door, that they were hidden from the world. His thumb swiped a tear from Mycroft's face, his smile soft, apologetic. Mycroft didn't cry, he never cried - unless he was extremely distressed or physically depleted and teetering on the edge of emotional exhaustion. Belize must have been worse than he had anticipated, and adding in the stress of the flight back to where Greg was in the hospital - it had taken quite a toll. "I'm okay." He used the hand on Mycroft's face to gently tug him down for a kiss, lips warm and soft against his, hesitant, as if Mycroft did not want to hurt him. "I'm not a china doll."

Mycroft pulled back slightly, attempting to scowl. "You're still in trouble," he scolded Greg. The effect was ruined by the way the smile lit his face when Greg rolled his eyes.

"I am sorry," he murmured, just relishing the fact that this partner was there. The first time he had been injured - stabbed, chasing after Sherlock and John on a case - Mycroft had been out of the country on a three-month assignment and Greg had gone through the trauma and the recovery by himself. John had helped, visiting as frequently as he could with his temperamental boyfriend (Sherlock considered Greg less than useful when injured, and instead he became Dimmock's problem). Mycroft had resorted to texting, as much as he hated it, and did whatever he could to offer Greg solace while he was away.

It had been hard on both of them, and was probably one of the lowest points of their relationship. The fights after Mycroft had returned home had taken some time to mull over, and their relationship had been made stronger than ever. This was only the second time he had been seriously hospitalised, and he feared that Mycroft was thinking too much about the past, wondering if it would be a repeat. "You're here, love." He moved to press a kiss to Mycroft's lips. "It's different. We're together."

"I can work from home until you recover," Mycroft said seriously, his eyes level with Greg's.

Greg snorted. "Only a couple days of the week. You know how mad I would go with you underfoot."

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. "Who, exactly, would go mad?"

"Both of us," Greg replied cheekily. The banter was comforting, and he could see the tension slowly melting from his lover's frame. "You know, I don't think anyone's going to come check on us for a while..."

"Gregory," Mycroft said sternly. Greg rolled his eyes.

"I didn't mean that," he retorted. "But you obviously need a nap, love, and there's plenty of room for you in this bed."

"I do not wish to compromise your health, Gregory, and I fear what you are suggesting would do just that."

Greg sighed dramatically. "If you really want to make sure you're not hurting me, bring in the doctor. Even better, bring John in. He won't lie to you. Or maybe he would, just to be a bastard. I'm never really sure with him."

"He never did quite grow out of that reckless stage," Mycroft agreed absently.

"Especially not with catering to Sherlock," Greg added. "Although they do balance each other out." After his stint in rehab, Sherlock had given drugs up (mostly) for good. Greg had a sneaky suspicion that he had relapsed once or twice, but it was rare that John left his side and he had seen Sherlock through the worst of his time. John had essentially moved into the Estate, once Mycroft had left. The staff had been given careful instructions, replaced with people that would be loyal to Mycroft and not his family. Sherlock had finally been gifted with the laboratory he desired (along with careful instructions for its usage) and John had oh-so-helpfully volunteered to supervise him (although it was more of an enabling position than a supervisory one, in Greg's opinion).

John had done his A-levels, overcoming his adversity to get into a Uni with a good, solid program in medical sciences. His decision to enter the military had nearly broken Sherlock at the beginning, and Greg had been frightened for his sobriety and for their relationship. Not that anything had been official at that point (not that either of them would admit), but Mycroft was intelligent and Greg not stupid, so both had been paying attention. Then something had changed, and overnight, Sherlock's demeanour had changed. He had not been exactly happy, but he was calmer, and never left John's side.

The year and a half John had served as a medic in Afghanistan had been tough on both of them. Greg knew more than he would have admitted to Sherlock, knew about the times Sherlock fell asleep in class because he had been up in the middle of the night to Skype with John. He knew about the sleepness nights when Sherlock was so restless that he could not settle until he heard John's voice, or got a text that he was okay. Out of anyone else Sherlock knew, Greg could sympathize. He had gone through the same thing with Mycroft's choice of job.

Then John had been shot, and invalided home. Sherlock had not been sure whether to be more angry about the wound or happier that John was home early, and that he had him back. Greg had just been happy to have Sherlock's other half home. It was like the tall, gangly young man had been a shadow, half a man. Once John returned home he was whole again. It was odd, Greg thought, how two dissimilar brothers could ultimately end up in such similar situations. Not that it bared thinking, comparing Mycroft to Sherlock, for that would most certainly end in disaster of some sort, but he allowed it its fleeting moment of thought.

Mycroft stood, reluctantly shedding his suit jacket and waistcoat, leaving himself partially unclothed, just his unwrinkled shirt, trousers, and shoes on. Greg smiled, encouraging. There was little more enticing than his partner dressed in such an ensemble, but he was more up for cuddles than for raunchy sex. That could wait, for when Mycroft wasn't ready to bite his head off for his stupid capture attempts. Greg wasn't exactly fond of getting shot, so it wasn't like he was going to try it again, but it made Mycroft happier to fuss over Greg, so fuss he allowed. Mycroft crawled back onto the bed, stretching out his long body against Greg's hospital-gown clad one.

Stubbornly ignoring the pain it caused, Greg lifted up the blankets so that Mycroft could crawl underneath them if he wished. Instead all he got was a raised eyebrow, and he sighed dramatically. "Fine, be that way."

Mycroft kissed him gently, laying his head on Greg's non-damaged shoulder, skin against skin, and Greg's skin tingled. Silence fell, and Greg knew that Mycroft was trying to find words, trying to find what he wanted to say. Sometimes they would not come, and he would get frustrated, worried that something he would or would not say would alienate Greg, or push him away. "I love you," Greg told him softly.

The last of the tension ebbed from his partner's body, and he relaxed against Greg, exhaustion taking over. Greg pressed a kiss to Mycroft's forehead, a smile on his face. "I love you as well, Gregory. Forever."

"Ever and ever, love." Greg carefully moved a strand of Mycroft's hair out of his eyes, pressing a kiss to the auburn hair as he did so. He listened, waiting for his breathing to slow and steady. It was only once his partner was asleep against him, strong and steady, that Greg allowed himself to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all. :D Thank you.


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